THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OUR  PROFESSION 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


JARED   BARHITE, 

PRINCIPAL  OF  THIRD  WARD  GRAMMAR  SCHOOL, 
LONG  ISLAND  CITY,  N.  Y. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

WILLIAM   E.   BARHITE, 

270  Freeman  Avenue,  Long  Island  City,  N.  Y. 

1895. 


COPYRIGHT,   1895. 


PRESS  OF 

WEISEL,    MEIER    &    WITTE, 
109    NASSAU    ST.,    N.   Y. 


PREFACE. 


During  the  past  quarter  of  a  century,  it  has  been  a 
pleasant  pastime  for  me  to  obey  the  dictates  of  my 
feelings  and  inscribe  them  upon  paper. 

The  present  volume  is  a  collection  of  these  vagrant 
pastimes,  some  of  which  have  wandered  far,  while  others 
have  never  before  appeared  to  any  eye  save  the  writer's. 

To  call  them  home,  introduce  them  to  each  other,  and 
properly  house  them,  seems  a  parental  duty. 

If  in  them  there  is  a  thought  that  shall  inspire  others 
of  my  profession  to  feel  the  dignity  and  responsibility 
of  the  calling,  their  publication  will  not  have  been  in 
vain. 

The  intent  being  good,  the  fruit  cannot  be  evil. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


GO *"»  C ">  r  t*i 
fVtJOO  / 


DEDICATION. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOTHER,  WHOSE  DEVOTION,  ENERGY,  AND 

PERSEVERANCE    LED    ME    TO    DRINK    AT    THE    FOUNTAIN    OF 

KNOWLEDGE  AND  TRUTH,  UNTIL  I  SAW  BEAUTY  THEREIN, 

THIS    VOLUME    IS    AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED. 


The  true  end  of  life  is  to  elevate  man 

In  body,  in  mind,  and  in  spirit, 
That  here  he  may  serve  some  beneficent  plan, 

Then  a  mansion  in  heaven  inherit. 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

A  Beacon  Light 129 

A  Boy 81 

A  Lesson  from  Nature 189 

All  Things  are  Second-handed 212 

Alone 140 

Amityville 215 

An  Open  Book 175 

A  Picture 200 

Arbor  Day  Tribute 84 

Artist  Nature 119 

Boding  Snow 174 

Buttercups  and  Daisies '    87 

Communion  with  Nature 96 

Courage  and  Faith 26 

Discontent 132 

Drifting  Away 158 

Duty  Done 42 

Ere  and  at  my  Call 173 

Evil  Habits .- 56 

Faces  I  Read 214 

Fact  versus  Form 29 

Fidelity 219 

Finis 231 

Fragments 127 

Good  Habits 53 

Heartstrings 147 

Important  Moments 166 

Incompetence 27 

Indulgence 61 

Interest 31 

Invocation  to  the  Muse 9 

Kindred  Spirits 160 

Lake  George,  N.  Y 106 

Liberty 154 

Lies 145 

Life's  Emergencies 58 


INDEX. 

PAGE. 

"  Lo,"  The  Departed 167 

Love H2 

Many 40 

Maple  at  my  Father's  Door 115 

Memory 130 

Memory  and  Reason 32 

Mind  Awakened 71 

Mirrors 39 

Morning  Flowers 118 

Mountain  Brook 99 

Music 120 

My  Brother's  Birthday 196 

My  Choice 76 

My  Mother's  Love 192 

My  Boom  in  Boyhood's  Days 202 

Nature's  Child 105 

Nature's  Voice 204 

Needs  and  Powers 19 

Oceanus'  Mirrors 116 

On  Brooklyn  Bridge 183 

Our  Battlefield 49 

Our  Politics 134 

Our  Profession 11 

Perhaps 165 

Pious  Pie  Poem  Puns 218 

Poundridge,  N.  Y 205 

Beat. 123 

Retrospection 138 

Robin  Redbreast 110 

Rye 95 

School  Days 162 

Selfishness 137 

Some  Characters  I  Can't  Admire 180 

Some  Characters  I  Much  Adore 177 

Soul  Speaks  to  Soul 48 

Strand  Despair 60 

Success 125 

Sunset 135 

Survival  of  the  Fittest 66 

The  Dandelion 90 

The  Desirable  Undefined 34 

The  Difference 67 

The  Evening  before  my  Brother's  Fifty-third  Birthday 194 

The  Fanner. . .  112 


INDEX. 

PAGE. 

The  Flowers  I  Love 91 

The  Fringed  Gentian 89 

The  Future 170 

The  Goldenrod 86 

The  Hair 152 

Their  Life  is  what  they  Make  It 185 

The  Lone  Bird 187 

The  Morning  Glory 94 

The  Ogre '. 72 

The  Old  Farm 114 

The  Eequirements  of  the  Hour 80 

The  Rose 85 

The  Second  Sunday  in  May 104 

The  Senses 44 

The  Stream's  Story 102 

The  Teacher's  Soliloquy 63 

The  Thrush 108 

The  Trea  of  State 82 

The  Unwritten  Letter 210 

The  Voice 198 

Tim 208 

To  a  Mountain  Brook 101 

To  My  Daughter  Blanche  in  Heaven 197 

Trailing  Arbutus 93 

True  Wealth 217 

Twilight  Hour 150 

Who  Knows? 149 

Who  Shall  Judge? 169 


INVOCATION  TO  THE  MUSE. 

F\IDACTIC  muse  Calliope, 

Expand  thy  soothing  silent  wings, 
Touch  chords  of  measured  harmony 
Wherein  the  soul  ecstatic  sings, 
Let  language  fraught  with  living  truth 
Find  such  expression  by  thy  art, 
As  shall  assist  the  guides  of  youth 
To  fire  the  soul  and  win  the  heart. 

Bemove  the  barriers  which  so  long 
Have  held  in  thraldom  many  a  mind, 
Sing  to  the  deaf  a  ransom-song, 
Be  eyes  to  those  whose  souls  are  blind ; 
Teach  those  who  mould  the  plastic  mind 
To  know  that  Grod  hath  never  given 
A  mission  weightier,  more  refined, 
To  angels  round  the  courts  of  heaven, 
Than  that  of  training  human  minds 
Committed  unto  human  hands, 
In  which  the  spirit  e'er  survives 
And  through  eternity  expands. 


10  OUR  PROFESSION 

Paint  truthfully  the  living  dead 
Whose  sensibilities  were  slain 
By  tyros,  oft  unskilled,  unread, 
In  all  the  workings  of  the  brain; 
Whose  concepts  of  the  avenues 
That  reach  the  mind  of  tender  youth, 
Are  labyrinths  of  tangled  views 
Devoid  of  art,  science,  and  truth; 
Touch  but  that  chord  of  magic  power 
Which  gives  the  soul  augmented  bliss, 
And  lifts  it  for  the  present  hour 
Above  the  world's  base  selfishness; 
Then  let  the  search-light  of  the  soul 
Illumine  every  page  that's  read, 
Until  an  animated  whole 
Shall  supersede  the  living  dead. 

Then,  then  shall  dawn  the  golden  day 
When  Ignorance  shall  shamed-faced  fly 
Before  the  potent  living  ray 
Of  mind,  touched  by  effulgency 
That  pours  its  light  in  vital  force, 
Upon  the  mind  of  plastic  youth, 
And  leads  it  gently  to  the  source 
Of  light  and  scientific  truth. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  11 


OUR  PROFESSION. 

There's  an  art  in  our  profession, 
Which  cannot  be  wholly  learned 
From  all  books  in  our  possession, 
Though  their  leaves  be  deftly  turned 
Till  the  mind  shall  grasp  the  meaning 
Of  each  truth  they  may  contain, 
Yet  there  remains  a  gleaning 
Not  a  product  of  the  brain. 

One  may  know  the  truths  of  science 

Till  his  mind  may  have  full  store, 

Or  may  place  some  great  reliance 

On  ancient  and  modern  lore; 

He  may  count  the  stars  in  heaven, 

He  may  trace  them  in  their  course, 

And  from  data  that  is  given 

He  may  prove  creation's  source; 

He  may  use  the  best  of  diction 

To  portray  his  studied  thought; 

He  may  draw  from  truth  and  fiction 

All  the  charm  with  which  they're  fraught; 

He  may  be  a  friend  of  Nature 

And  may  understand  her  laws; 

He  may  prove  embryo  creature 

Has  within  itself  a  "cause"; 

He  may  fathom  all  creation 


12  OUE  PROFESSION 

And  dwell  among  the  stars, 
Visit  every  land  and  nation 
And  return  with  honor's  scars; 
Yet  he  may  lack  a  power, — 
Occult  to  scientific  truth — 
Which  is  Heaven's  richest  dower 
To  the  guides  of  ardent  youth. 

Though  all  these  may  give  a  polish 
To  the  gem  that  lights  the  soul, 
They  are  weak,  useless,  and  foolish, 
When  they're  taken  for  the  whole 
Of  all  the  powers  required 
To  entrance  the  youthful  mind, 
With  a  spirit  so  inspired 
As  to  touch  the  eyes  of  blind 
With  a  bright  illumination 
That  shall  prove  itself  to  be 
More  than  a  corruscation 
Of  a  short-lived  ecstasy. 

By  intuition,  children  know 

A  heart  that  cares  for  them; 

They  recognize  a  friend  or  foe, 

At  instantaneous  ken. 

No  mask  can  shield  a  fraud  or  fool, 

E'en  from  a  puerile  mind; 

It  knows  by  rules  not  learned  at  school 

The  way  true  hearts  to  find. 

An  earnest  love,  unbounded,  firm, — 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  13 

A  God-gift  from  our  birth — 

By  far  outweighs  the  noblest  charm 

Can  be  acquired  on  earth. 

"Who  has  not  drunk  deep  at  the  well 

Of  childhood's  innocence, 

Or  thinks  that  he  should  ever  dwell 

At  such  an  eminence, 

That  he  can  never  bend  to  raise 

And  cheer  a  longing  heart, 

Will  waste  his  precious  hours  and  days, 

And  finally  depart 

Without  such  fruitage  or  reward 

As  ever  should  be  given 

To  him,  who  serves  master  or  Lord, 

And  hopes  for  bliss  in  heaven. 

Who  sees  no  soul-buds  here  expand  • 

To  blossom  by  and  by, 

Hath  fathomed  not  the  great  command 

For  which  we  live  and  die. 

The  State  demands  that  every  son 

And  daughter  shall  be  free 

From  ignorance  and  vice  which  run 

Toward  crime  and  misery. 

The  future  of  our  noble  State 

Dwells  now  in  plastic  form; 

If  she  her  past  would  emulate 

And  meet  the  coming  storm 

Of  chaos,  whose  portentous  wing 


14  OUK  PROFESSION 

Seems  hovering  not  afar, 

In  every  school-room  we  should  sing 

Of  banner  and  of  star 

That  gave  the  land  to  Liberty, 

And  with  a  bold  huzza 

Proclaim  that  he  who  would  be  free 

Must  honor  right  and  law. 

Who  serves  his  State  and  fellow-man 
And  plies  his  skill  at  best, 
Assists  to  carry  out  the  plan 
To  make  all  truly  blest; 
He  may  not  sit  in  marble  hall 
Where  legislators  meet, 
Nor  may  he  rear  fine  towers  tall, 
Or  dwell  in  a  retreat 

Where  monks  and  nuns  with  solemn  prayer 
.  Pour  out  their  orison; 

The  test  of  faith  is  filial  care, 

And  duty  nobly  done. 

Minds  let  us  mould,  men  may  we  rear, 

For  God,  for  State,  for  man, 

Using  the  right  without  a  fear 

To  mar  the  heaven-born  plan. 

The  test  of  great  didactic  skill 

Is  not  to  train  the  few 

Whose  active  genius,  tact,  and  will 

Are  always  plain  to  view; 

But  he  who  takes  an  inert  mind, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  15 

Housed  in  a  sluggish  frame, 

And  forms  such  man  as  God  designed, 

Deserves  an  honored  name. 

Like  Sisyphus  some  ever  roll 

The  same  old  round  of  things 

Which  dwarf  the  mind  and  starve  the  soul, 

Until  they  long  for  wings 

To  fly  from  dull  monotony, 

Which  carries  in  its  train 

That  wreck  of  thought — Despondency — 

Which  preys  on  heart  and  brain. 

The  artist  knows  the  colors  best 

That  blend  in  harmony 

With  richest  cloud-scenes,  in  the  west, 

That  gild  the  sunset  sky; 

The  minstrel  knows  what  song  to  sing 

To  please  the  multitude; 

His  fingers  deftly  touch  the  strings 

That  yield  response  subdued 

When  weary  soul  would  find  relief 

From  sorrow's  withering  sigh, 

Or  when  the  heart  is  bowed  with  grief, 

And  tear-drops  dew  the  eye; 

But  when  the  soul  is  full  of  joy, 

How  jubilant  the  strain 

The  tactful  artist  will  employ 

To  please  the  heart  and  brain. 


16  OUK  PKOFESSION 

If  those  who  toil  in  lowly  spheres 

Employ  such  artful  ways 

To  charm  the  dull  and  listless  ears 

That  such  may  sound  their  praise, 

Why  should  the  artist  of  the  mind 

Shrink  from  that  noble  aim 

That  seeks  to  elevate  mankind, 

And  light  a  deathless  flame ! 

Or  why  should  he  who  shapes  the  lives 

And  destiny  of  man, 

Be  less  exact  than  he  who  strives 

From  mercenary  plan. 

No  instrument  man  ever  made — 

None  ever  can  be  found — 

No  matter  when  or  where  'tis  played, 

Will  yield  so  rich  a  sound 

As  that  which  falls  from  human  tongue 

When  heart  speaks  unto  heart, 

Nor  are  its  mysteries  among 

The  hidden  things  of  art; 

A  tyro  on  life's  winding  road 

Reads  understandingly 

Each  tone  and  word,  each  varied  mode 

The  tongue  and  form  portray. 

Our  heart's  intents  are  from  our  looks 
More  plainly  to  be  read, 
Than  thoughts  expressed  in  printed  books 
Whose  language  oft  seems  dead, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  17 

Because  it  lacks  a  living  form — 
A  voiceless,  dull  decree 
That  of  itself  lias  little  charm 
For  youth's  activity. 

A  potent  charm  of  living  light 

Flows  with  resistless  force, 

Dispelling  clouds  of  mental  night 

That  meet  its  onward  course, 

When  all  the  soul  is  centred  in 

The  great  and  primal  thought 

That  services  which  hearts  would  win, 

With  price  can  ne'er  be  bought. 

Such  service  heaven  alone  repays 

E'en  though  on  earth  'tis  done, 

Its  echoes  last  through  endless  days, 

And  dies  but  with  the  sun. 

A  mercenary  soul  must  find 

A  more  congenial  field 

Than  that  of  training  human  mind 

Wherein  a  soul's  concealed, 

If  it  would  live  out  all  the  days 

Allotted  unto  man, 

And  bask  in  all  the  genial  rays 

Revealed  in  God's  great  plan. 

No  lubrication  of  the  nerves 
Has  ever  yet  been  found, 
For  him  who  like  a  menial  serves 
Dull  lesson's  daily  round; 


18  OUR  PROFESSION 

But  gnawing  friction,  stern  and  gaunt, 
Tears  flesh  and  brain  away, 
While  ghosts  nocturnal  ever  haunt 
A  soul  with  fell  dismay, 
Whose  mercenary  greed  has  led 
Itself  into  a  snare 

That  counts  by  scores  its  strangled  dead, 
Its  hundreds,  in  despair. 

He  doubly  lives  who  can  forget 
Himself  and  his  own  ease, 
While  toiling  patiently  to  set 
New  gems  in  crowns  he  sees, 
That  may  adorn  some  other  head 
Than  that  he  calls  his  own, 
And  animate  the  germs  wide  spread 
In  seeds  already  sown. 


To  skim  the  surface  of  knowledge, 
And  seldom  its  root  to  reach, 
Is  a  receipe  one  may  offer 
To  direct  "  How  Not  To  Teach." 


OTHER  POEMS.  19 


NEEDS  AND  POWEKS. 

I  KNOW  of  no  profession 
'Mong  profane  or  divine, 
Excelling  in  its  mission 
The  power  embraced  in  mine. 

It  reaches  earth  and  heaven 
Through  heart  and  soul  of  man, 
It  lives  beyond  the  present — 
Eternity  doth  span. 

Mind  in  its  first  formation, 
While  in  its  plastic  state, 
Receives  primal  impressions 
Which  make  it  vile  or  great. 

When  soil  of  thought  is  fertile 
And  ready  for  the  seeds, 
It  may  bring  precious  fruitage, 
Or  vile  and  noxious  weeds. 

No  sower  should  be  careless, 
For  harvest  much  depends 
Upon  the  well-selected  seeds, 
With  mental  soil  he  blends. 


20  Oun  PROFESSION 

If  field  be  rich  and  mellow 
And  no  good  seed  be  sown, 
With  tangled  mass  of  vileness 
It  will  be  overgrown, 

And  shield  the  deadly  serpent, 
The  basilisk  of  sin, 
That  far  exhales  its  pois'nous  breath, 
Then  crawls  its  den  within. 

No  atoms  of  pollution 
In  matter  e'er  was  known, 
So  vile  or  so  destructive 
As  soul  by  sin  o'erthrown. 

The  vilest  spot  upon  the  earth, 
Through  sunshine,  air,  and  rain, 
May  be  transformed  in  ev'ry  part 
And  purified  again. 

The  fields  where  chaos  reigned  supreme 
And  Nature  frowned  aghast, 
By  patient-toil  have  fruitage  borne 
And  blossomed  fragrance  cast. 

The  wreck  of  spheres  by  traction's  laws 
Hurled  wildly  into  space, 
May  gather  atoms  round  itself 
And  find  some  resting  place 


AND  OTHEB  POEMS.  21 

Where  it  may  serve  creation's  end, 
And  'mong  the  planets  roll, 
True  to  the  laws  of  gravity 
That  marks  its  outer  pole. 

The  mind  and  soul  can  never 
Within  themselves  find  rest, 
When  all  the  sin's  pollutions 
Are  harbored  in  the  breast. 

Then  sow  good  seed,  brave  teacher, 
And  deeply  plant  with  care, 
That  both  here  and  hereafter 
Rich  harvest  it  may  bear. 

The  sowing  may  be  silent — 
It  may  be  but  a  tear, 
Its  strength  is  in  its  purpose, 
Its  aim  must  be  sincere. 

It  should  not  be  a  rite  or  creed, 
But  wider  far  than  these, 
It  should  encompass  God  and  man, 
Home  and  antipodes. 

To  learn  the  truths  of  science, 
Know  tables,  books  and  charts, 
To  analyze  the  potent  thrill 
That  fires  all  earnest  hearts, 


22  OUR  PROFESSION 

To  revel  in  the  mysteries 
That  lie  deep  in  the  earth, 
To  give  the  proper  data 
When  planets  had  their  birth, 

To  know  the  exact  elements 
That  constitute  the  sun, 
The  causes  why  swift  currents 
Within  the  ocean  run, 

The  ratio  of  the  vapors 
That  color  sunset  skies, 
Time's  infinitesimal  fraction 
When  planets  set  and  rise, 

To  solve  the  problems  of  the  air, 
The  secrets  of  the  deep, 
Are  all  intrinsic  subjects 
And  worthy  of  our  keep. 

But  these  alone  are  worthless, 
They  need  augmented  force 
To  lead  mind  toward  the  fountain 
From  which  it  had  its  source. 

They  leave  one  vital  question — 
Development  of  man — 
Without  e'en  crude  solution, 
Without  a  working  plan. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  23 

They  leave  the  mighty  problem 
Of  Maker  and  the  Made, 
Devoid  of  any  sequence, 
Or  any  plan  portrayed. 

These  are  of  greatest  moment 
To  persons  and  to  State, 
Upon  their  wise  adjustment 
Must  hang  progression's  fate. 

Cold  are  the  truths  of  science, 
Lifeless  their  every  plan, 
Until  in  living  presence, 
They're  crystalized  in  man. 

As  hidden  truths  are  useless 
And  aid  not  human  skill, 
So  slumber  mighty  forces 
Through  lack  of  human  will. 

To  know  the  right  is  not  enough, 
It  must  be  given  power 
Through  culture  of  the  heart  and  soul, 
If  it  shall  blessings  shower. 

To  State,  to  manhood  and  to  God 
Must  mind  be  wholly  given, 
Ere  truth  will  shine  a  beacon  light, 
To  illumine  earth  and  heaven. 


24  OUK  PROFESSION 

All  things  were  made  but  to  subserve 
Man's  powers  to  improve, 
And  beautify  his  being  here 
Through  charity  and  love. 

Power,  gold,  and  wealth  are  agencies 
Placed  in  a  creature's  hand 
To  serve  an  end,  but  not  to  rule, — 
Obey,  but  not  command. 

As  mind  and  soul  matter  surpass 
And  error  flies  from  truth, 
So  should  we  train  the  nobler  parts 
Of  plastic,  trusting  youth. 

The  sacred  man  by  God  ordained, 
Links  sinful  earth  with  heaven, 
But  his  success  oft  must  depend 
On  how  instruction's  given. 

The  holy  task  of  training  mind 

Is  not  a  trivial  thing, 

Its  influence  lives,  grows  and  expands 

Till  harvest  it  shall  bring. 

No  task,  to  human  hands  assigned, 
Excels  in  force  and  weight 
The  grave  responsibilities 
Of  those  who  educate. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  25 

Let  knowledge  of  the  sciences, 
Skill  in  didactic  art, 
Power  in  the  impulse  of  the  soul 
A  knowledge  to  impart, 

A  love  for  God  and  human  kind, 
Forgetfulness  of  self, 
A  heart  devoted  to  the  cause 
More  than  to  worldly  pelf, 

Be  given  as  a  heritage 
To  those  who  fain  would  teach, 
Then  living  truth  shall  nourish, 
And  all  mankind  shall  reach. 


There's  an  ebb  and  flow  of  sentiment 
In  educational  tides, 
"Which  oft  discards  some  solid  old  facts, 
And  on  wild  new  hobbies  rides. 
The  educator  of  modern  times 
Must  prove  the  false  and  the  true, 
Hold  fast  the  worthy  of  the  old, 
Unprejudiced,  test  the  new. 


26  OUR  PROFESSION 


COURAGE  AND  FAITH. 

OTJRAGE  and  Faith  are  of  heavenly  birth, 

Though  sent  down  to  our  lowly  earth 
To  cheer  the  heart  of  man  ; 
They  are  only  strong  whe,n  the  human  soul 
Yields  perfect  trust  and  full  control 
To  heaven's  benignant  plan. 

Nature  expands  when  this  God-sent  pair 
Finds  a  fertile  heart  that  needs  the  care 

Of  a  messenger  divine, 
And  permits  their  strength  to  succor  give 
That  truth  may  grow  and  honor  live 

To  yield  their  fruit  benign. 


Who  gives  no  sunshine  from  his  soul 
Must  live  in  darkness  ever, 
For  Nature  scorns  to  such  degree, 
She  blinds  a  sordid  giver. 

But  he  who  scatters  noble  deeds, 
And  lives  to  bless  mankind, 
Shall  see  the  beauties  God  reveals 
To  men  with  hearts  refined. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  27 


INCOMPETENCE. 

COMETIMES  our  soul  within  us  burns 

To  see  dark  Ignorance  aspire 
To  move  toward  light  a  mind  that  yearns 
For  knowledge  4hat  may  lift  it  higher 

Upon  the  royal  road  of  truth, 
While  every  word  and  act  and  thought 
Betrays  an  atmosphere  so  fraught 
With  lack  of  common  sense  and  lore, 
WTe  plead  for  some  almighty  power 

To  save  from  such  our  precious  youth. 

No  ray  of  truth  can  ever  shine 

To  beautify  and  make  divine 

The  heart  and  mind  of  anxious  soul, 

When  doubts  and  fears  have  full  control 

Of  him  who  knows  he  blindly  leads. 
If  human  minds  and  souls  and  hearts 
May  not  command  those  who  have  arts 
And  power  to  waken,  lead,  inspire, 
Then  knowledge  fails  of  her  desire, 

And  Ignorance  on  Wisdom  feeds. 


28  OUR  PROFESSION 

Let  science,  art,  didactic  skill, 
Be  guided  by  unyielding  will 
Born  in  some  earnest,  patient  one 
Whose  heart  glows  like  the  summer  sun 

And  warms  all  by  its  ardent  fire  ; 
Whose  interest  is  so  intense 
It  readily  itself  imprints 
Upon  the  tender  minds  of  youths, 
Precepts  and  scientific  truths 

Such  as  their  yearning  hearts  desire. 

Then  there  shall  come  a  brighter  day, 
When  darkness  shall  to  light  give  way, 
And  Wisdom  on  her  throne  rejoice, 
And  speak  with  accent  in  her  voice 

That  charms  and  cheers  a  hungry  mind. 
Then,  students,  beauty  shall  receive 
Instead  of  ashes  that  deceive, 
Their  days  and  nights  of  earnest  toil, 
Their  struggles  by  the  midnight  oil 

Give  recompense  complete,  refined. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  29 


FACT  VERSUS  FORM. 

A  S  shadows  are  to  material  forms, 
^^     As  mists  to  the  copious  shower 
As  dead  calms  are  to  tornado  storms 
That  in  tropical  region  lower 
So  are  educational  falacies 
That  ignore  and  decry  as  naught 
The  value  and  power  that  ever  lie 
In  the  scope  of  original  thought. 

No  smooth  device  with  a  soulless  form 

Should  obscure  the  living  thought; 

It  smothers  the  mind,  destroys  the  charm 

That  comes  to  him  who  has  wrought 

To  discover  new  truth,  by  a  truth  well  known, 

On  which  he  may  safely  build, 

Till  his  mental  strength  by  use  has  grown 

To  a  giant  strong  and  skilled. 

When  thought  is  secure,  the  reason  clear, 
And  the  language  to  tell  is  pure, 
Abridgement  comes  like  a  friend  sincere, 
For  it  cannot  the  mind  obscure. 
The  wasted  time  on  a  form-clad  task 
Steals  gems  from  youth's  precious  years, 
Leaves  a  wreck  on  life's  shore,  we  cannot  mask 
With  our  sorrows  and  si^hs  and  tears. 


30  OUK  PROFESSION 

If  what  we  have  learned  has  given  no  power 

To  acquire  what  yet  we  must  learn, 

If  all  our  past  struggles  leave  not  a  dower 

To  which  we  may  joyously  turn 

And  feel  that  a  strength  within  us  is  given 

Through  efforts  already  bestowedj 

In  vain  have  we  lived,  in  vain  have  we  striven, 

Each  task  is  the  same  weary  load. 

If  task  of  to-day  shall  not  lighten  th'  one 

May  come  upon  us  to-morrow, 

It  is  but  a  proof  our  work  was  ill  done, 

And  bodes  to  us  grief  and  sorrow. 

Ev'ry  effort  of  mind  applied  aright 

Augments  the  mental  perception, 

For  God  aids  the  brave,  and  giveth  a  light 

To  shine  away  imperfection. 

There's  a  magic  power  in  a  task  well  done, 

There's  a  charm  in  solid  reason, 

There's  a  mighty  force  in  a  victory  won, 

Which  an  alert  mind  will  seize  on, 

And  with  giant  strength  that  is  thus  acquired 

March  on  till  the  fields  of  science 

And  the  zones  of  thought  wherein  man  aspired 

Shall  be  won  by  self-reliance. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  31 


INTEREST. 

has  not  seen  the  inert  mind, 
Bowed  down  and  sore  oppressed, 
Start  into  life,  and  vigor  find 
At  touch  of  interest 
Some  sympathetic  soul  has  shown, 
By  look  in  kindness  given, 
Or  word  whose  accent,  cadence,  tone, 
Gave  joy  akin  to  heaven  ? 

No  emanation  from  the  heart 

Has  greater  power  to  win, 

Than  that  which  lays  aside  all  art 

And  qniietly  steps  in 

To  soothe  through  sympathy,  the  cares 

And  sorrows,  one  by  one, 

Of  timorous  soul  who  scarcely  dares 

Go  forward  all  alone, 

But  needs  some  word  of  magic  power 

To  give  him  life  and  zest, 

Some  animating  heart-given  dower 

Whose  wealth  is  interest. 

Few,  few  there  are  who  know  the  force 

That  dormant  lies  in  many  a  brain, 

Who  trace  inertia  to  its  source 

Or  see  how  mind  o'er  mind  may  reign. 


32  OUR  PROFESSION 


MEMORY  AND  REASON. 

V\/HO  stores  the  mind  with  richest  truth 

Gathered  from  sages  of  all  lands,   . 
May  toil  through  days  of  sunny  youth, 
And  on  till  Death  gives  his  commands, 
But  fails  to  call  to  him  the  aid 
Of  Reason,  Judgment,  and  Good  Sense, 
"Will  find  himself  at  last  dismayed 
At  smallness  of  his  consequence. 

The  choicest  gems  must  polish  bear, 
And  metals  must  be  purged  from  earth, 
Before  a  lustre  they  can  wear 
That  tells  of  their  intrinsic  worth. 
The  brain  requires  friction  of  thought, 
Obtained  through  contact  with  the  world, 
"With  which  may  skillfully  be  wrought 
The  mental  gems  research  unfurled. 

"Who  builds  alone  on  Memory 
Will  find  he  lacks  a  needed  force 
To  fire  and  set  the  spirit  free, 
And  move  him  onward  in  the  course 
That  tends  to  lead  him  by  a  way 
"Whose  goal  is  sure,  complete  success, 
But  wanting  such,  can  but  display 
Chaotic  mass  of  nothingness. 


AND  OTHEE  POEMS.  33 

Let  Memory  and  Reason  wed, 
Their  product  then  may  fully  know 
The  food  on  which  great  minds  are  fed, 
The  founts  from  which  great  actions  flow  ; 
Each  holds  its  share  of  honored  meed, 
But  each  requires  the  other's  aid 
To  stimulate  the  urgent  need 
By  which  great  genius  is  displayed. 


Many  a  brave  resolution 

Is  formed  on  New  Year's  Day 

To  annihilate  some  vices 

That  on  our  morals  prey; 

But  before  the  year  is  ended 

They  go  so  far  astray 

We  find  our  lives  are  pursuing 

The  old,  accustomed  way. 


34  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE  DESIRABLE  UNDEFINED. 

I  have  often  thought  there's  a  power 
Unknown  to  science  or  art, 
That  opens  and  closes  the  portals 
That  lead  to  the  human  heart. 

I  have  learned  there's  a  secret  something 
That  remains  yet  undefined, 
That  touches  the  springs  and  pulleys 
That  open  the  human  mind. 

I  have  watched  the  glow  of  faces, 
As  a  light  from  this  occult  source 
Has  touched  some  inert  nature 
With  an  energizing  force. 

The  effect  was  so  magnetic, 
It  seemed  like  creative  skill 
From  the  hand  of  the  Great  Master, 
To  give  passive  being  will. 

Sometimes  its  power  seemed  but  presence, 
Sometimes,  a  soft,  mild  tone, 
Sometimes,  a  look  of  decision, 
Ofttimes,  from  a  source  unknown. 


AND  OTHEB  POEMS.  35 

There's  a  something  wrapped  in  th'  nature 
Of  those  most  adapted  to  teach 
That  charms  and  holds  the  attention 
Of  those  whom  its  powers  reach. 

There's  a  sound  from  some  vibration 
Within  the  human  voice 
That  arouses  the  latent  spirit 
And  makes  the  soul  rejoice. 

Its  tone  has  a  magic  power 
Whereby  the  heart  is  impressed 
With  the  weight  of  its  noble  mission 
And  unselfish  interest. 

There's  a  mystic  charm  most  winsome 
In  th'  glance  of  a  speaking  eye 
Whose  light  shines  in  dark  recesses 
And  explores  them  in  passing  by. 

It  illumines  the  page  of  the  student 
As  his  soul  warms  by  its  fire, 
And  stirs  him  to  greater  action, 
And  lifts  aspirations  higher. 

Every  word  and  look  and  action 
Has  weight  on  trustful  youth, 
That  needs  no  sage  to  interpret 
Or  explain  its  vital  truth. 


36  OUR  PROFESSION 

They  are  fully  comprehended 
Through  the  instinct,  every  one, 
And  need  no  labored  searching 
In  a  massive  lexicon. 

Some  call  this  power  attraction, 
Some  term  it  affinity, 
But  all  recognize  its  existence 
And  wonderful  potency. 

There's  also  a  power  of  repulsion 
That  breathes  with  abated  breath, 
"Whose  presence  is  best  betokened 
By  ominous  signs  of  death. 

No  word  has  an  inspiration, 
No  look  has  a  sign  of  cheer, 
Each  act  reveals  that  a  burden 
Must  be  borne  in  sorrow  and  fear. 

The  wrecks  that  are  made  by  its  presence 
Have  filled  almshouses  and  jails 
With  the  deepest  of  lamentations, 
The  saddest  of  human  wails. 

A  selfish,  terrible  monster 
That  drives  away  honor  and  truth 
Is  the  cold-blooded  fiend  Repulsion, 
The  destroyer  of  tender  youth. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  37 

The  sea  in  its  frenzy  and  fury, 
When  lashed  by  the  wintry  gales 
Casts  on  the  rocks  its  vessels 
Bereft  of  their  spars  and  sails; 

The  path  of  the  fierce  tornado, 
Overstrewn  with  wild  debris 
Of  fallen  habitations 
And  uprooted  forest  tree; 

The  wreck  of  a  world  of  matter 
That  transforms  revolving  spheres, 
Which  have  gathered  all  their  greatness 
Through  the  lapse  of  a  million  years; 

The  snow-clad  mountain  terror — 
The  fearful  avalanche — 
Whose  thunders  are  heard  in  valleys 
Where  imploring  faces  blanch; 

The  mouth  of  a  raging  Etna 
With  its  stifling  breath  of  fire, 
Wherein  the  pride  of  a  city 
In  a  moment  may  expire; 

The  trembling  of  the  mountains 
When  an  earthquake  passes  by, 
And  the  terror  of  the  people 
Struck  dumb  in  their  agony  ; 


38  OUB  PKOFESSION 

The  rage  of  a  foaming  torrent, 
After  the  bursting  cloud 
Has  poured  its  liquid  fury 
In  destruction  wild  and  loud; 

Are  but  the  potent  protests 
Of  Nature's  elements 
Against  some  ill  arrangement 
That  brings  them  discontents. 

But  these  in  separate  actions, 
Or  in  forces  all  combined, 
Leave  not  so  sad  a  ruin 
As  the  wreck  of  one  human  mind. 

The  voice,  the  eye,  and  the  manner 
Are  all  unlocked  by  a  key 
That  has  for  its  great  attraction 
A  confiding  sympathy. 

The  knowledge  of  books  is  essential 
To  those  who  youth  would  guide, 
But  the  grace  of  earnest  endeavor 
Excels  all  else  beside. 

Truth  in  its  plainness  is  beauty, 
Science  itself  is  a  charm, 
But  the  frown  of  a  tyrant  tutor 
Puts  both  in  constant  alarm. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  39 

To  receive  a  healthful  impression, 
Mind  must  be  free  from  fear, 
Will  must  be  held  by  attraction, 
Soul,  by  a  soul  sincere. 


MIRRORS. 

O  OME  persons  in  mind  are  but  mirrors 
Reflecting  what  others  have  thought, 
That  make  no  original  errors, 
They  are  only  able  to  quote. 
You  may  ask  their  opinion  on  matters 
That  pertain  to  affairs  of  the  day, 
Their  minds  are  but  shreds  and  tatters ' 
Of  what  all  their  neighbors  say. 

We  respect  the  man  who  is  careful 
With  others  his  mind  to  compare, 
But  who  of  himself  is  not  fearful 
His  honest  opinion  to  share 
With  men,  when  some  public  measure 
Upon  the  State  has  been  thrown, — 
Who  proves  his  mind  a  rich  treasure 
He  uses  and  calls  his  own. 


40  OUE  PKOFESSION 


MANY. 

I\A  ANY  a  grand  ambition 

Had  birth  and  died  in  a  day, 
From  lack  of  vigorous  nursing 
To  keep  it  from  decay. 

Many  a  hope  has  faded 
And  sunk  in  deepest  despair, 
Through  lack  of  careful  pruning 
That  fruitage  it  might  bear. 

Many  a  mind  is  ruined 
And  becomes  chaotic  mass, 
Through  want  of  systematic 
Training  in  the  class. 

Many  a  song  of  sweetness 
Has  lost  its  harmony, 
Because  at  its  beginning 
It  had  not  the  proper  key. 

Many  a  field  most  fertile 
Bears  vile  and  noxious  weeds, 
Through  failure  of  the  tiller 
To  sow  some  worthy  seeds. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  41 

Many  a  flower  of  beauty 
And  sweetness  blooms  unseen, 
And  dies  in  its  seclusion 
On  a  bed  of  mossy  green. 

Better  to  have  no  talent, 
No  excellence  to  give, 
Than  permit  vice  to  destroy 
The  talent  we  may  have. 


No  dam  can  restrain  the  water 
When  leaks  receive  no  care, 
"When  the  tempest  in  wild  fury 
Doth  chafe  and  gnaw  and  tear, 
And  no  hand  is  raised  to  succor, 
No  effort  to  repair, 
Till  the  torrent  bursts  in  fury 
And  fills  us  with  despair. 
'Tis  too  late  then  for  repining, 
Too  late,  for  work  or  prayer. 


42  OUE  PROFESSION 


DUTY     DONE. 

A    duty  done  is  victory  won, 

E'en  though  in  the  doing, 
Efforts  may  fail  to  bring  avail 
In  lines  we  are  pursuing. 

Nothing  is  lost  whate'er  the  cost, 

When  efforts  made  are  noble, 
Beyond  the  sky  acts  never  die, 

And  honor's  crown  is  double. 

Right  cannot  fail,  but  must  prevail, 

If  noble  be  the  motive; 
Heaven  is  nigher  if  we  aspire 

With  hearts  sincere  and  votive. 

Much  strength  we  gain  when  we  maintain 
A  truth  for  truth's  sake  solely; 

A  mighty  power  guides  effort's  hour 
And  stamps  its  cause  as  holy. 

If  honest  heart  act  well  its  part, 

And  ask  the  aid  of  heaven 
Its  feeblest  word  will  be  so  heard 

That  succor  will  be  given. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  43 

It  matters  not  how  low  our  lot 

We  rise  by  honest  trial; 
No  effort  made  for  needed  aid 

E'er  met  complete  denial. 

The  soul  expands  when  it  demands 

A  right  for  self  and  others, 
And  darkest  night  has  ray  of  light 

For  honest  helpful  brothers. 

A  noble  soul  spurns  the  control 

Would  bind  in  servile  fetters; 
No  chains  can  bind  God-given  mind 

Inspired  by  love  and  letters. 

An  earnest  will  can  ne'er  be  still 

Though  oft  its  hopes  be  baffled, 
It  will  succeed  though  victims  bleed 

And  die  upon  the  scaffold. 

Loud  shout  and  sing,  "Crown  Effort  King," 

And  let  the  watchword  be 
This  earnest  prayer  heard  everywhere, 

"  God  and  Humanity. " 

A  duty  done  is  victory  won, 

For  strength  comes  by  the  doing; 
There's  no  retreat,  there's  no  defeat, 

If  right  we  are  pursuing. 


44  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE     SENSES. 


THE    EYE. 

OOME  eyes  are  trained  to  scan  large  field 
Till  instantaneous  glance  may  yield 

A  knowledge  full  and  plenty; 
While  others  keep  a  narrow  ken 
And  view  the  ways  of  active  men 

With  satisfaction  scantv. 


The  optic  nerve  has  power  so  keen, 
That  ev'ry  object  by  it  seen 

Is  stamped  upon  the  brain; 
But  they  of  sluggish  mental  mold 
No  vivid  photograph  will  hold, 

And  scarce  a  scene  retain. 

THE     EAR. 

The  tympanum  with  perfect  drum 
Hears  not  the  sound  when  armies  come 

With  clarion  notes  and  song, 
Unless  its  stimulated  nerve 
Has  fully  learned  to  humbly  serve 

In  stations  which  belong 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  45 

To  those  which  God  designed  shoxild  live 
For  special  duties,  He  might  give 

To  move  mankind  along 
Upon  the  road  toward  perfect  'man, 
That  He  might  thus  reveal  His  plan, 

And  happiness  prolong. 

THE     TONGUE. 

The  power  that  lies  in  perfect  speech 
Dwells  with  the  few  who  only  reach 

That  art  through  toil  and  care; 
A  faulty  tongue  perverts  the  ear, 
Destroys  the  sense,  augments  the  fear, 

And  feeds  on  empty  air. 

A  nation's  destinies  have  hung 
Upon  the  influence  of  a  tongue 

Whose  magic  eloquence 
Has  swayed  the  thoughts  of  men,  whose  word 
Was  mightier  than  the  glittering  sword 

Of  armies  most  immense. 

THE     HAND. 

The  manual  touch  when  guided  by 
The  magic  power  of  sympathy 

That  animates  the  soul, 
May  lead  to  fields  of  cultured  art 
And  cast  an  influence  on  the  heart 

May  through  all  ages  roll. 


46  OUR  PROFESSION 

The  canvass  and  the  stone  may  speak 
To  more  than  Roman  and  to  Greek 

Though  in  a  foreign  land; 
They  show  the  might  of  cultured  skill 
Directed  by  an  iron  will 

That  guides  a  master's  hand. 

THE   NOSE. 

The  perfumed  fields  of  blooming  May, 
The  evening  scent  of  new-mown  hay 

Touch  nerve  olfactory, 
And  carry  to  the  thoughtful  brain 
Loved  memories  of  a  long-past  train 

That  once  was  full  of  glee. 

Though  flowers  to-day  are  choice  and  rare, 
In  colors  they  may  well  compare 

With  richest  hues  we  meet; 
They  lack  the  charm  that  gave  them  power 
Since  past  is  youth's  entrancing  hour 

Their  fragrance  seems  less  sweet. 

COMBINED     INFLUENCE. 

Five  roads  lead  to  the  human  brain 
And  through  these  roads  all  must  obtain 

The  commerce  of  all  lore; 
No  thought  can  enter  mental  port 
Of  any  kind  or  any  sort, 

Of  modern  davs  or  yore, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  47 

Except  such  as  a  tariff  pays 

To  pass  these  honored,  great  highways 

Which  lead  to  eminence, 
And  follow  closely  every  nerve 
"Which  Gk>d  designed  should  truly  serve 

Each  mind  of  consequence. 


Perhaps  that  star  in  yonder  sky, 
May  be  my  dwelling  place  on  high, 
When  life  on  earth  is  done; 
At  eventide  I  love  to  gaze 
Upon  its  soft  reflected  rays, 
When  silent  and  alone. 

Its  brightness  charms  and  draws  my  soul, 

By  some  mysterious,  strong  control 

I  cannot  well  explain, 

Unless  it  be  within  it  dwell 

The  friends  of  earth  I  loved  so  well, 

Who  could  not  here  remain. 


48  OUR  PROFESSION 


SOUL   SPEAKS  TO   SOUL. 


speaks  to  soul,  eye  speaks  to  eye, 
And  mind  by  mind  is  read; 
The  heart  bounds  in  sweet  ecstasy 
Whene'er  a  light  is  shed, 
That  shines  to  illume  a  cherished  thought 
That  seemed  to  dwell  alone, 
But  on  through  years  has  nobly  sought 
To  solve  some  truth  unknown. 

The  living  truth  that  seemeth  dead, 

Needs  but  a  kindred  touch 

To  resurrect  thought's  vital  thread, 

And  give  it  influence,  such 

As  breaks  the  bands  of  fettered  mind, 

And  sunders  thraldom's  chains, 

Spreads  benefactions,  pure,  refined, 

Where  ignorance  now  reigns. 

Magnetic  touch  of  spark  divine, 

Speak  to  the  inert  soul, 

Let  light  from  out  the  darkness  shine, 

And  truth  her  page  unroll; 

Speak  to  the  minds  that  waiting,  starve, 

And  give  them  power  to  see, 

That  he  who  patiently  will  serve 

Shall  win  the  victory. 


AND  OTHEE  POEMS.  49 


OUE  BATTLEFIELD. 

[Written  for  an  entertainment  given  by  the  Fife  and  Drum 
Corps  (36  uniformed  members)  of  the  Third  Ward  Grammar 
School  of  Long  Island  City,  of  which  the  writer  is  Principal.] 

INHERE  are  fields  of  martial  glory 

Where  the  slain  are  ne'er  bemoaned; 
There  are  victories  though  silent, 

Where  grim  monarchs  are  dethroned; 
There  are  scenes  of  strife  and  foray 
r«      Where  gigantic  forces  strive 
For  the  mastery  and  triumph 
Of  the  ends  for  which  they  live. 

There  are  forces  more  puissant 

Than  ten  million  armed  men, 
There  are  banners  that  are  emblems 

Of  the  mighty  tongue  and  pen, 
That  reflect  upon  their  blazon 

Honest  purpose  grand  and  true, 
Such  as  never  graced  the  victors 

Of  Sedan  and  Waterloo. 


50  OUR  PROFESSION 

There  are  weapons  in  these  contests 

Keener  than  the  Damask  blade, 
There  are  metals  of  such  temper 

As  no  crucible  e'er  made; 
For  the  dross  must  be  extracted 

In  the  furnace  of  the  soul 
Till  no  refuse  or  pollution 

Shall  defile  the  perfect  whole. 

Though  this  army  counts  its  millions, 

Each  must  face  alone  the  foe, 
Each  must  bring  a  special  weapon, 

Each  must  strike  himself  the  blow 
That  shall  free  him  from  the  shackles 

Of  that  despot  and  his  train, 
Who  with  ignorance  and  vices 

Would  destroy  the  heart  and  brain. 

Our  true  sword  is  Education 

And  grim  Ignorance  our  foe ; 
We  are  battling  with  our  passions, 

And  our  spirits  are  aglow 
With  a  full  determination 

To  accept  the  proven  truth 
That  the  days  of  precious  seed-time, 

Are  the  sunny  days  of  youth. 

Day  by  day  the  contest  rages 
And  each  task  that's  daily  done, 

Brings  a  soothing  satisfaction 
That  another  victory's  won. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  51 

Tims  the  strength  we  gain  in  action 

Aids  in  each  succeeding  strife, 
To  make  the  struggles  lighter 

In  the  battles  of  our  life. 

There  are  avenues  and  byways 

Which  lead  into  the  heart, 
Whose  intricate  environments 

Require  the  highest  art 
To  tell  what  inspiration 

Shall  touch  a  dormant  mind, 
And  fire  it  with  a  living  zeal 

For  a  station  more  refined. 

It  is  only  voice  of  music 

That  speaks  universal  tongue; 
It  matters  not  in  what  accent 

A  sweet  melody  is  sung, 
It  will  find  responsive  feelings 

Which  will  aptly  understand 
Though  it  be  of  unknown  measure 

And  sung  in  a  foreign  land. 

We  come  with  our  martial  music, 

With  our  noisy  fife  and  drum 
To  inspire  the  weak  and  weary, 

To  open  the  mouths  of  the  dumb, 
To  train  our  every  emotion 

For  a  better  sphere  in  life, 
To  enjoy  for  the  passing  moment 

The  sound  of  the  drum  and  fife. 


52  OUR  PROFESSION 

We  hope  our  notes  may  be  peaceful 

And  free  from  carnage  of  war; 
We  would  bind  up  the  broken  hearted 

And  cover  the  wound  and  scar, 
But  should  foe  our  country  menace 

And  refuse  to  be  just  and  calm, 
We  would  sound  aloud  the  tocsin 

And  march  to  defend  Uncle  Sam. 


To  plant  an  intellectual  seed 

And  guard  its  growth  from  noxious  weed, 

That  it  may  fruitage  bear, 

Is  solace  more,  a  thousand  fold, 

Than  hoarding  bonds  and  stocks  and  gold, 

Or  sporting  jewels  rare. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  53 


GOOD    HABITS. 

A    silent  force  marks  out  the  course 

Of  every  man  and  woman, 
No  matter  what  may  be  the  lot 
Of  creatures  that  are  human, 

The  end  attained  is  ever  gained 
By  means  so  strange  and  hidden, 
We  call  it  luck,  instead  of  pluck, 
Or  fate  by  fairies  bidden. 

The  human  eye  cannot  descry 
All  workings  of  the  brain; 
At  silent  night,  it  gains  a  might 
Which  bears  a  mental  train 

Whose  lucid  glow  may  thrones  o'erthrow, 
Or  bid  new  nations  rise, 
May  prove  some  plan  whereby  proud  man 
May  ransack  earth  and  skies. 

Think  not  such  power  a  fairy's  dower, 
Or  influence  from  some  star, 
It  did  not  spring  from  anything 
Beyond  what  mortals  are. 


54  OUR  PROFESSION 

To  man  is  given  the  keys  of  heaven 
If  they  be  rightly  used; 
No  being  born  but  must  be  shorn 
If  blessings  are  abused. 

Keep  well  the  trust !     Guard  it  we  must, 
From  in  and  outward  foes, 
Strength  will  be  gained,  might  be  attained 
By  efforts  to  oppose 

The  secret  vice  that  doth  entice 
To  ruin  and  despair; 
But  he  who  will  hath  power  to  kill 
Such  vice  within  its  lair. 

Let  habits  grand  the  life  command 
And  Eden  is  regained; 
No  future  bliss  need  surpass  this 
If  habits  are  unstained. 

Let  smiling  face  your  presence  grace 
And  earth  will  smile  on  you, 
Let  from  the  tongue  a  song  be  sung, 
Its  echo  will  be  true, 

And  sing  again  the  same  refrain 
Upon  the  selfsame  key, 
Till  airs  elate,  reverberate, 
Heaven's  sweetest  minstrelsy. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  55 

If  we  extend  a  hand  to  friend 
Who  needs  a  brother's  care, 
Though  it  may  hold  no  purse  of  gold 
The  act  he  will  revere. 

Scarce  do  we  know  whence  comes  the  glow 
That  duty  done  e'er  gives, 
Its  altar-fire  cannot  expire — 
Here  and  hereafter  lives. 

Such  habits  then,  for  gods  and  men, 
Are  but  the  means  whereby 
They  may  prepare  to  gain  their  share 
To  mansions  in  the  sky. 

Sing  then  a  song,  its  notes  prolong, 
In  praise  of  Habit's  power; 
Let  custom  be  from  evil  free 
And  it  will  blessings  shower. 


56  OUE  PROFESSION 


EVIL     HABITS. 

l_I  OW  habit  grows  no  one  e'er  knows, 

And  yet  he  is  a  giant 
That  has  a  will  and  subtle  skill 
That  never  yet  was  pliant. 

'Tis  very  plain  that  he  has  slain 
More  than  the  sword  and  spear, 
With  wily  art  he  charms  the  heart 
And  quells  the  greatest  fear. 

His  artful  eye  is  wondrous  sly 
And  has  bewitching  glance, 
Where'er  he  moves  his  victim  loves 
To  see  his  powers  advance. 

He  makes  no  noise  'mong  girls  and  boys 
Whom  he  would  call  his  own, 
His  spell  is  cast,  he  holds  them  fast 
Till  they  are  overthrown. 

When  this  is  done  the  field  is  won, 
And  they  are  all  his  own, 
He  heeds  no  cry,  no  choking  sigh, 
No  plea,  no  prayer,  no  groan. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  57 

If  you  would  be  forever  free 

From  tyrant  so  severe, 

Watch  every  thought  before  you're  caught, 

For  he  is  hovering  near. 

Your  every  word  guard  with  the  sword 
Of  truth,  which  never  fails, 
Its  honor's  sung  in  every  tongue, 
Its  power  e'er  prevails. 

Act  well  your  part,  and  keep  your  heart 
Free  from  the  tares  he  sows, 
For  at  the  end  like  traitor  friend 
He  leaves  you  with  your  woes. 

Thus  Habit  mars  with  wounds  and  scars 
The  favored  of  our  race, 
Transforms  the  mind  that  God  designed 
Should  be  the  dwelling  place 

Of  noble  thought  with  heaven  fraught 
Into  a  sterile  plain, 

Whose  atmosphere  is  dank  and  drear — 
A  wild  chaotic  brain. 

Man  scarce  may  be  entirely  free 
From  wiles  and  tricks  and  snares, 
Whose  stealthy  forms  and  subtle  charms 
Approach  us  unawares. 


58  OUR  PROFESSION 

Our  eyes  are  blind  or  not  inclined 
To  see  that  powerful  hand, 
That  silently,  yet  forcibly 
Gives  us  its  strong  command. 


LIFE'S     EMERGENCIES. 

L-JOW  strangely  dark  are  the  vapors 

That  sometimes  obscure  the  way, 
Ere  the  light  of  truth  advances 
To  the  noon  of  a  perfect  day. 

As  the  unforeseen  approaches 

In  stealth  from  ambushed  retreat, 

The  mettle  of  soul  is  summoned 
Its  emergencies  to  meet. 

To  shrink  by  its  sudden  coming, 

To  surrender  our  control 
Without  a  struggle  for  vantage, 

Betrays  a  weakness  of  soul. 

The  conflicts  with  emergencies 

We  meet  in  our  daily  call, 
Give  strength  or  death  to  moral  worth 

As  we  conquer  them  or  fall. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  59 

To  meet  at  once  with  valor  true 

The  attack  from  an  ambuscade, 
In  moral  strife,  or  bloody  war, 

Hath  many 'a  hero  made. 

Who  has  not  trained  himself  to  meet 

The  vicissitudes  that  arise 
Upon  the  course  of  life's  stern  race, 

Must  fail  to  secure  its  prize. 


To  hold  a  pessimistic  view, 

And  see  the  world  as  darkly  "blue," 

And  feel  mankind  is  false,  untrue, 

Is  not  a  just  conclusion; 
But  Truth  demands  that  Hope  shall  wear 
No  false  rose  in  her  silken  hair, 
To  hide  Deceit,  Fraud,  and  Despair, 

That  feed  on  wild  Delusion. 


60  OUR  PROFESSION 


STRAND     DESPAIR. 

F*HE  wrecks  that  lie  on  Strand  Despair, 

Should  serve  as  buoys  on  life's  stern  seas 
To  guide  the  voyager  safely,  where 
He  may  escape  the  tides  and  breeze 
That  drive  to  whirlpools,  bars,  and  rocks, 
Where  human  vessels  oft  impinge 
And  leave  a  ruin  that  but  mocks 
The  pleadings  of  persuasion's  hinge. 

An  idle  mind,  companions  base, 

A  shrinking  from  a  duty  known, 

A  sly  deceit,  a  brazen  face, 

A  lying  tongue,  a  sullen  tone, 

Lead  toward  a  wreck  on  Strand  Despair, 

And  none  but  self  can  move  the  helm 

To  change  the  course  for  scenes  more  fair, 

To  save  from  storms  that  overwhelm. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  61 


INDULGENCE. 

A  N  alarm  is  sounding  through  the  land 

That  tells  of  a  stronger  foe 
Than  that  which  marched  on  Lexington, 
To  strike  a  fatal  blow 
At  the  liberties  our  sires  did  claim 
For  themselves  and  all  mankind, 
For  this  foe  is  a  product  of  deceit 
And  sophistry  combined. 

Its  victims  fall  by  the  smiling  ways 

Of  a  charmed  environment 

That  lures  him  on  to  neglect  and  sin, 

And  to  final  banishment 

Of  the  vital  spark  of  an  earnest  man, 

And  all  that  is  noble  and  true, 

To  the  effete  round  of  nothingness 

Which  honor  and  strength  will  subdue. 

No  Spartan  Helen  of  beauty  and  fame, 

No  mermaid  with  winsome  face, 

No  Siren  that  sings  an  alluring  song, 

No  Pandora  in  her  grace, 

Can  soothe  and  charm  to  destruction's  retreat, 

Like  the  foe  that  robs  of  power 

To  meet  the  needs  of  life's  true  aim, 

The  requirements  of  each  hour. 


62  OUR  PROFESSION 

It  lias  filled  our  courts,  our  prisons,  our  jails, 

And  filled  our  almshouses,  too, 

Itself  and  distress  walk  hand  in  hand, 

No  crimes  but  its  victims  "will  do; 

Though  it  seems  like  a  true  and  trusty  friend 

'Tis  a  tyrant  in  disguise, 

It  leads  to  distrust  and  uncertainty, 

It  wins  no  enduring  prize. 

In  homes  it  leads  to  disorder  wild, 

In  school,  to  defiance  of  laws, 

In  nations,  to  strife  on  bloody  fields, 

In  man,  to  destruction's  jaws; 

In  business  its  office  is  but  to  destroy, 

In  friendship,  brings  lack  of  respect, 

In  love,  oft  a  maddened,  frienzied  heart 

That  can  never  endure  neglect. 

Parents,  true  kindness  holds  steady  hand, 
Judges,  know  justice  is  kind, 
Teachers,  remember  the  work  for  you 
Is  to  strengthen  heart  and  mind. 
Kindness,  dethroned  by  lack  of  control, 
Ruins  our  girls  and  our  boys, 
Firmness  is  noble,  honest,  and  true, 
Indulgence  only  destroys. 


AXD  OTHEE  POEMS.  63 


THE  TEACHER'S  SOLILOQUY. 

A  ND  so  another  week  has  gone, 

And  I  once  more  am  left  alone 
Within  my  silent  room; 
My  mind  is  worn  by  fervent  care, 
And,  languishing,  it  needs  repair 
For  duties  yet  to  come. 

From  all  the  cares  which  come  on  me 
I  cannot  be  entirely  free 

Thro'  all  this  mortal  life; 
But  cares  imported  from  abroad 
Make  much  more  ponderous  the  load, 

And  cause  more  bitter  strife. 

With  patient  labor,  day  by  day, 
I  work  along  this  toilsome  way 

Intent  on  doing  good; 
My  pupils'  hearts  I  would  inspire 
With  noble  thoughts  and  strong  desire 

For  intellectual  food. 


64  OUR  PROFESSION 

I  note  the  various  schemes  and  arts, 
As  prompted  by  the  different  hearts, 

They  lead  to  different  deeds. 
As  deeds  and  hearts  will  correspond, 
By  observation  it  is  found 

There  should  be  different  meeds. 

The  wish  made  known  for  some  will  do, 
And  some  a  gentle  frown  would  rue 

And  feel  extremely  sad; 
While  others  need  a  sterner  look, 
A  reprimand,  or  sharp  rebuke, 

And  sometimes  e'en  the  rod. 

Most  gladly  would  I  hail  the  day 
When  children  cheerfully  obey, 

(If  e'er  that  day  shall  come,) 
But  ere  that  happy  day  I  see, 
A  reformation  there  must  be 

In  government  at  home. 

And  what  is  my  reward  for  all 
This  watchful  care  and  earnest  toil 

To  train  the  youthful  mind  ? 
From  Ignorance  it  draws  a  curse — 
Though  pocket  hold  a  puny  purse- — 

Yet  one  reward  I  find — 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  65 

To  see  the  young  prepared  for  life 
And  launched  upon  the  outward  strife 

Of  its  tempestuous  sea, 
And  know  that  I  have  trained  that  mind, 
With  noble  thought  that  heart  refined, 

Is  rich  reward  for  me. 

When  all  life's  lessons  have  been  taught, 
And  my  own  soul  with  love  is  fraught 

For  earnest,  striving  man, 
Perhaps  an  understanding  Lord 
Will  proffer  as  a  great  reward, 

Redemption  through  His  plan. 


A  beautiful  vision  I  sometimes  see, 

That  stands  in  the  distance  and  smiles  upon  me; 

It  points  with  a  finger  of  radiance  bright, 

To  the  fleeting  shades  of  departing  night. 

I  would  gladly  know  if  this  scene  designed 

To  be  a  true  type  of  the  human  mind, 

When  the  mists  and  clouds  of  dark  ignorance, 

Shall  into  the  realms  of  the  unknown  advance. 


66  OUB  PROFESSION 


SUEVIVAL  OF  THE  FITTEST. 

THE  survival  of  the  fittest, 

The  advancement  of  the  best, 
The  enthronement  of  the  truest 

In  the  world's  great  crucial  test, 
Is  emblazoned  on  each  banner 

Wherever  man  is  found, 
And  e'en  'mong  plants  and  animals 
This  holds,  the  world  around. 

Then  prepare  for  the  survival, 

Allow  no  base  retreat, 
(Dethronement  means  delinquency,) 

Endure  the  cold  and  heat; 
The  elements  that  meet  us 

May  all  be  overcome, 
With  God  and  right  ever  in  sight, 

The  victory  may  be  won. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  67 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

T   HAVE  scanned  the  roll  of  teachers, 

Have  noted  the  Aarons  and  Hurs 
Who  have  stayed  education's  Moses, 
And  removed  the  cumbrous  bars 
That  environed  its  anxious  spirit, 
And  bowed  down  its  life  with  cares. 

I  have  counted  them  all  over, 
Have  analyzed  heart  and  brain, 
Have  watched  them  in  daily  labor 
That  I  might  some  key  obtain 
To  unlock  the  magical  power, 
By  which  some  supremely  reign. 

I  have  listened  with  ear  enraptured, 
Have  caught  the  gleam  of  the  eye, 
Have  felt  the  glow  of  emotion 
When  bright  corruscations  fly 
From  mental  touch  and  fervor, 
That  prompted  others  to  try. 


68  OUB  PROFESSION 

The  soul  knows  no  fire  so  warming, 

No  light  so  fervent  and  true, 

As  the  glow  of  the  living  presence 

Of  one  of  the  noble  few 

Who  counts  her  pain  but  pleasure, 

If  good  she  may  only  do. 

A  teacher  who  knows  her  subjects 
And  has  much  of  didactic  art, 
Will  present  the  truths  of  science 
To  the  youthful  mind  and  heart, 
In  ways  so  apt  and  skillful 
They  will  never  more  depart, 

But  will  gather  strength  and  beauty 

With  every  day  and  hour, 

Until  they  become  a  fortress — 

An  irresistible  power 

To  dispel  the  gloom  of  doubting 

That  oft  o'er  the  mind  may  lower. 

No  truth  is  learned  by  mere  telling, 
The  mind  must  conceive  and  apply; 
There  is  inspiration,  knowledge, 
In  one's  own  discovery 
That  lead  to  efforts  and  struggles 
For  a  greater  mastery. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  69 

Herein  lies  the  power  of  teaching: 

A  systemized  method  to  do 

That  reaches  the  understanding, 

And  leads  on  to  fields  anew, 

Where  Thought  shall  be  the  head  master, 

And  Truth  shall  Error  subdue; 

A  heart  that  is  wholly  given 
To  leading  the  youthful  mind, 
To  discover  the  powers  and  virtues 
They  within  themselves  shall  find, 
And  mould  them  into  actions 
Progressive,  strong,  refined; 

A  spirit  that  sees  in  the  being 
A  gift  from  God  unto  man, 
That  must  live  on  thro'  all  ages, 
Though  influenced  by  some  plan 
That  here  has  been  determined, 
But  God  shall  hereafter  scan; 

A  tongue  that  is  but  the  voicing 
Of  a  heart  aflame  with  its  cause, 
That  speaks  of  science  and  morals 
From  a  knowledge  of  their  laws; 
That  speeds  the  true  and  worthy, 
But  bids  all  deception  pause; 


70  OUK  PROFESSION 

A  judgment  so  wisely  balanced 
As  to  know  what  must  be  done 
To  avoid  the  indiscretions 
Into  which  so  many  run, 
Of  telling,  instead  of  leading, 
Till  the  victory  has  been  won. 


In  reckoning  the  moral  stock 

Of  any  man  or  woman, 
It  is  but  right  to  recollect 

That  all  of  us  are  human; 
If  heart  be  true,  the  body  frail, 

And  honestly  he's  striven, 
Tho'  oft  a  brother's  plans  may  fail, 

He  ought  to  be  forgiven. 


AND  OTHEE  POEMS.  71 

MIND  AWAKENED. 

THE  battle  is  not  to  the  mighty, 

Nor  the  race  to  the  fleet  of  foot, 
The  peak  is  not  reached  by  bounding, 
Nor  the  goal  by  a  devious  route; 
The  problems  of  science  and  culture 
Have  been  ages  upon  the  way; 
The  greatest  victories  'mong  nations 
Have  not  been  won  in  a  day. 
'Tis  the  steady  tramping  onward 
Of  feet  that  will  not  turn  aside 
From  the  path  they  are  pursuing, 
That  wins  at  the  eventide. 
'Tis  the  firm  determination 
Of  a  strong  and  unyielding  will, 
Moved  on  by  gigantic  action 
Of  forces  that  cannot  be  still, 
That  has  won  the  greatest  honors 
'Mong  nations  whose  moral  power 
Have  lighted  liberty's  beacon 
In  despondency's  darkest  hour. 
The  mind  that  is  sometimes  darkest 
When  it  struggles  for  light  and  power, 
Breaks  off  the  bands  of  thraldom 
And  itself  like  some  strong  tower, 
Becomes  the  bulwark  of  nations 
In  defense  of  some  sacred  cause 
That  looks  toward  the  world's  advancement, 
Through  reign  of  beneficent  laws. 


72  OUK  PROFESSION 


THE   OGRE. 

PHEKE'S  an  ogre  abroad,  boys, 

There's  an  ogre  abroad, 
A  three-handed  monster 

That  makes  his  abode 
In  hamlet  and  city, 

In  country  and  town, 
And  revels  in  death 

As  he  drags  people  down. 
He's  a  sly  old  destroyer, 

Very  loth  to  admit 
That  the  snares  he  is  using 

Are  fraud  and  deceit. 
He  has  slain  and  devoured 

More  than  the  sword; 
By  all  earnest  people 

He  is  greatly  abhorred, 
For  he  leads  to  disease, 

To  sorrow  and  death, 
As  poison  exhales 

From  his  presence  and  breath. 
He  fastens  himself 

On  bright,  innocent  youth, 
And  slyly  allures  him 

From  virtue  and  truth. 


AND  OTHEB  POEMS.  73 

He  holds  by  the  throat 

The  servants  who  wait 
To  hear  his  excuses; 

And  sad  is  their  fate, 
For  insidious  smile 

Is  his  only  excuse 
To  victims  who  suffer 

Defeat  and  abuse. 
So  sly  are  his  movements, 

So  stealthy  his  tread, 
Like  a  vampire,  on  blood 

He  is  frequently  fed, 
While  his  victim,  unconscious, 

Makes  no  defence; 
He  steals  mind  and  honor 

And  good  common  sense.     * 
If  you  meet  him,  my  boy, 

Beware  of  his  grasp, 
For  his  smiles  are  so  sweet; 

But  on  you  he  will  clasp 
The  shackles  he  carries 

Forever  concealed, 
And  when  he  secures  you 

He  seldom  will  yield. 
He  will  keep  you  away 

From  duty  and  right, 
Destroy  all  your  honor, 

Your  hopes  sadly  blight, 
With  promises  made 

Which  he  cannot  fulfill 


74  OUR  PROFESSION 

He  robs  of  contentment 

And  shackles  the  will. 
This  monster  has  always 

A  right  hand  and  left  hand 
That  have  powers  of  their  own 

That  ought  to  command. 
If  he  had  only  these 

And  used  them  aright, 
His  presence  would  ever 

Afford  us  delight; 
But  the  third  hand  he  has 

Is  a  very  unkind  hand, 
For  this  ogre's  real  name 

Is  Little  Behind  Hand. 
Little  Behind  Hand 

Is  tyrant  indeed, 
From  which  we  would  have 

Mankind  ever  freed. 
Little  Behind  Hand 

Can  seldom  find  work, 
For  he  stumbles  in  blindness 

And  gropes  in  the  dark, 
He  is  sullen  and  mean, 

Near-sighted  and  sour, 
Ruin  and  trouble 

'Bout  him  constantly  lower. 
Drive  him  off  !     Drive  him  off! 

Ere  he  fasten  on  you 
His  fangs  of  destruction, 

The  pestilent  dew 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  75 

That  he  breathes  on  his  victim 

To  deaden  the  sense 
Of  his  presence  and  power, 

And  their  sad  consequence. 
Strike  him  down  !    Strike  him  down ! 

With  strong,  sturdy  blow, 
If  you  yield  to  him  now 

He  will  soon  lay  you  low, 
And  when  hand  and  foot 

Are  at  his  command, 
You  will  feel  he  has  grown 

To  a  Big  Behind  Hand. 


The  public  tide  is  polluted 

With  offal,  fraud,  and  deceit ; 

In  ev'ry  line  of  industry 

Its  venomous  forms  we  meet 

In  men  who  sneer  at  truth  and  right, 

Who,  Honor's  path  have  decried, 

That  they  might  gain  the  golden  calf 

Whose  power  they  have  deified. 


76  OUR  PROFESSION 


MY  CHOICE. 

I  would  rather  dwell  a  hermit 

In  some  silent  peaceful  wood, 
Where  no  voice  of  human  being 

Ever  breaks  the  solitude; 
Where  babbling  brook,  and  minstrelsy 

Of  winged  friends  are  heard 
To  join  the  sylvan  choruses 

Of  leaves  when  gently  stirred, 
Than  live  in  costly  splendor 

With  a  heartless,  greedy  throng, 
Whose  only  thought  is  sordid  pelf 

Obtained  by  fraud  and  wrong. 

I  would  far  prefer  a  cavern 

On  some  rocky  sea-girt  isle, 
Where  the  constant  intonations 

Of  the  waves  as  they  recoil 
With  their  soughing  and  deep  moaning 

For  a  momentary  rest, 
Tell  of  liquid  matter  only 

That  bespeaks  itself  distressed, 
Than  to  live  where  human  bodies 

Bend  and  writhe  for  freedom's  air, 
Till  the  heart  breaks  in  deep  sorrow, 

And  the  soul  sinks  in  despair. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  77 

I  would  choose  a  lone  oasis 

"With  one  tree,  one  flower,  one  spring, 
One  bird  of  sprightly  plumage 

With  throat  attuned  to  sing; 
One  whisper  of  approval 

From  a  voiceless  power  within; 
One  perfect  intuition 

Of  freedom  from  all  sin, 
Than  dwell  'mid  throngs  and  plenty 

And  grovel  in  the  filth 
That  oft  adheres  to  those  who  claim 

The  boundless  stores  of  wealth. 

Some  quiet  nook  in  a  valley 

With  a  canopy  of  leaves, 
Such  as  a  forest  Titan 

In  fantastic  beauty  weaves; 
Or  some  vine-embowered  tangle 

O'ershadowing  murmuring  stream 
Where  scarce  a  ray  of  sunlight 

May  on  its  waters  gleam, 
Is  a  dwelling-place  more  restful 

To  a  man  by  right  controlled 
Than  the  courts  of  kings  and  princes 

Ablaze  with  filched  gold. 

I  would  not  shun  the  haunts  of  men 
Or  bustle  of  the  world, 

would  I  see  progression's  flag 
Lie  dormant  or  unfurled; 


78  OUK  PROFESSION 

If  man  for  manhood  would  aspire, 

And  less  for  gold  and  power, 
If  noble  thoughts  and  noble  deeds 

Employ  each  passing  hour, 
Then  should  the  bustle  be  supreme, 

For  manhood  thus  would  rise 
Above  the  baser  things  of  earth 

To  honors  in  the  skies. 

I  am  not  a  misanthropist, 

Nor  hater  of  just  wealth, 
I  love  the  presence  of  mankind, 

I  love  good-natured  health, 
I  love  a  true  and  noble  soul 

In  woman  or  in  man, 
I  love  a  being  who  would  not 

Invert  God's  primal  plan 
And  keep  in  bondage  soul  and  mindr 

Through  base  and  false  desire 
To  trample  fellow  beings  down, 

That  he  may  rise  still  higher. 

I  know  that  hate  deep  in  my  soul 

Burns  with  an  intense  flame 
Toward  him  who  scourges  the  oppressed, 

And  unjust  power  doth  claim, 
That  he  may  gain  some  subtle  coign 

By  which  to  overthrow 
The  balance  Justice  ever  holds 

Alike  for  friend  or  foe; 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  79 

For  such  can  never  bless  mankind 

By  thought  or  word  or  deed; 
They  laugh  in  glee  whene'er  they  see 

Their  victim  writhe  and  bleed. 

When  all  we  teach  in  man  is  mind, 

And  heart  has  no  domain, 
Then  fraud,  deceit,  and  treachery 

Will  form  a  tyrant  train, 
For  beacon  light  can  never  come 

Through  those  who  legislate 
Unless  good  seed  has  been  well  sown 

By  those  who  educate; 
But  lift  the  soul  by  Sinai's  laws 

And  by  the  Golden  Kule, 
Then  legislation  will  have  power 

Through  truths  taught  in  the  school. 


The  world  is  wanting  honest  men 
Who  know  and  dare  to  do  aright, 

Whose  honor  brightens  in  the  ken 
Of  Justice's  ever-searching  light. 


80  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE  EEQUIREMENTS  OF  THE  HOUR. 

T  T  is  hard  to  tell  at  the  dawn  of  day 

What  the  sunset  shades  may  bring, 
The  plans  we  make  may  be  astray, 
And  our  treasured  hopes  take  wing. 

We  know  not  what  strange  environment 
May  dwarf  our  most  cherished  plan, 

Or  what  obstructions  may  be  sent 
To  defeat  our  ends  and  aim. 

Though  we  scorn  the  thought  that  fickle  Fate 

Has  Destiny  in  her  hand, 
We  all  pay  tribute  at  her  gate 

And  bow  low  at  her  command. 

In  spite  of  all  the  powers  we  boast 

Of  independent  action, 
An  intervening  hand  may  cost 

Our  progress  great  detraction. 

Few,  few  there  be  who  lack  the  power 

To  shape  their  own  destiny, 
If  each  will  improve  th'  passing  hour 

To  its  full  capacity. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


A  BOY. 

A    boy  is  a  wonderfully  curious  thing, 

Of  all  creation  he  deems  himself  King, 
Yet  give  him  for  pastime  a  top  and  a  string 

And  he  is  instantly  spinning; 
When  fishes  are  ripe  he  tries  them  with  hook, 
He  thinks  more  of  them  than  of  a  new  book, 
And  steals  enough  time  to  after  them  look, 
Not  conscious  that  he  is  sinning. 

The  great  possibilities  within  his  scope 
Prompts  to  exertion,  inspires  him  with  hope, 
Till  with  the  world  he  is  ready  to  cope 

For  the  greatest  laurels  of  honor; 
Glory  and  fame  are  attractive  stars 
He  may  seek  in  strife,  under  bloody  Mars, 
Till  Wisdom  revolts  at  the  ugly  scars 

Ambition  has  placed  upon  her. 

Oh,  active,  mercurial,  wonderful  boy, 

The  world  is  a  top  and  you  spin  it  with  joy, 

Eegardless  of  all  the  wiles  you  employ 

To  gain  the  pleasure  of  seeing; 
No  tree  is  so  tall,  but  you  reach  its  top  limb, 
No  water  so  deep,  but  in  it  you  swim, 
No  ice  is  so  smooth,  but  o'er  it  you  skim 

Like  a  phantom,  a  wonderful  being. 


82  OUR  PROFESSION 


ARBOR   DAY   POEMS. 


THE   TREE   OF   STATE. 

[The  Maple  was  chosen  by  vote  of  the  children  in  th< 
schools  of  N.  Y.  State  as  the  State  Tree,  and  the  Rose  as  th< 
State  Flower.  Nature's  Tribute,  The  Rose,  and  The  Goldei 
Rod  were  written  at  the  request  of  the  State  Department  o 
Public  Instruction  of  N.  Y.  and  sent  to  the  schools  of  the  Stat< 
for  Arbor  Day  use.  Nature's  Tribute  was  set  to  music.] 


of  our  state  and  emblem  of  neatness, 
Beauty  and  grace  abide  in  thy  form; 
Not  in  thy  blood  alone  courses  a  sweetness, 
Thy  ev'ry  unfolding  is  suavity  born. 

Down  in  the  vale  where  cowslips  are  growing, 
Where  violets  breathe  thro'  sweet  scented  lips, 

Where  brook  o'er  the  bright  pebbly  bottom  is  flowing, 
And  bee  of  the  nectar  of  columbine  sips. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  83 

A  monarch  it  stands  of  regnative  power, 

In  a  graceful  symmetrical  pose; 
Whose  arms  weave  a  fairy,  majestical  bower 

Where  wood-nymphs  their  beauty  disclose. 

Its  beautiful  leaf  of  silvery  sheen, 

And  the  grandeur  it  gives  to  the  grove, 

Proclaim  to  th'  world  it  of  forest  is  queen, 
And  most  worthy  our  heart's  purest  love. 

Honor  we  maple  as  type  of  all  neatness, 
Yielding  protection,  beauty,  and  grace; 

None  of  its  rivals  boast  of  such  sweetness, 
None  can  in  typical  form  fill  its  place. 

May  th'  state  be  as  pure  in  motive  and  plan, 

As  the  maple  from  evil  is  free. 
May  every  son  of  the  state,  as  a  man 

Take  his  type  from  the  pure  maple  tree. 

Then  hale  be  the  state,  and  hail  to  the  tree ! 

And  each  halo  of  glory  shall  last 
Till  from  all  tumult  our  state  will  be  free, 

And  no  stain  on  her  honor  be  cast. 

This  tree  be  our  care,  our  state's  honored  prize. 

May  virtue  and  glory  assemble, 
And  bid  every  man  in  dignity  rise 

Till  the  tree  of  our  state  he  resemble. 


84  OUB  PROFESSION 


ARBOR  DAY  TRIBUTE. 

\A7lTH  lavish  hand  our  God  hath  spread 
Beauty  and  fragrance  o'er  the  land; 
His  smile  revives  the  seeming  dead; 
Nature  awakes  at  His  command. 

He  breathes  upon  the  leafless  tree; 

He  whispers  to  the  tiny  flower. 
His  touch  awakes  the  slumbering  bee, 

And  each  obeys  th'  Almighty  power. 

The  perfumed  breeze  of  smiling  May, 
The  dancing  stream  on  mountain  side, 

The  wild  bird's  trill  of  joyous  lay 

Proclaim  Thy  goodness  far  and  wide. 

Attune  our  hearts  to  sing  Thy  praise, 
Expand  our  souls  to  comprehend 

Thy  attributes  and  all  Thy  ways, 
And  ever  be  our  Guide  and  Friend. 

We  plant  to-day  within  the  mould, 
The  stock  that  needs  Thy  tender  care; 

Send  deep  its  roots,  its  buds  unfold 
In  answer  to  our  faith  and  prayer. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  85 


THE   ROSE. 

\A/HEN  dewy  morn  of  balmy  June 

Awakes  and  blushes  in  the  East, 
When  song  birds  pipe  their  sweetest  tune 

And  Nature  spreads  her  grandest  feast, 
Among  the  rare  and  fragrant  plants 

Whose  petals  most  of  heaven  disclose, 
In  foremost  rank — far  in  advance — 

There  stands  the  sprightly,  smiling  rose. 

Its  home  is  on  the  wide,  wide  plains, 

In  valleys  where  wild  torrents  foam, 
In  solitudes  where  silence  reigns, 

And  by  the  cotter's  humble  home. 
It  cheers  alike  the  rich  and  poor 

On  Alpine  heights,  or  by  the  sea, 
By  castle  wall  or  peasant's  door — 

It  justly  claims  ubiquity. 

Could  blushing  beauty  born  of  heaven, 

Or  world-wide  worship  win  the  prize, 
Could  fragrance,  fancy,  fame,  or  even 

The  rich  rays  of  reflected  skies 
Soothe  sorrows  sharp  and  scorching  sting 

And  give  the  world  complete  repose, 
Then  men  should  shout  and  children  sing — 

"The  flower  of  State  must  be  the  Rose !  " 


86  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE   GOLDENROD. 

\A/HEN  August  sunset's^ yellow  blaze 

Streams  out  o'er  meadow,  field  and  lawn, 
It  seeks  some  shrine  wherein  its  rays 

May  linger  till  returning  dawn, 
And  touching  gently  with  its  sheen 

That  graceful  plumage  of  the  sod, 
Its  constellated  gems  of  green 

Are  changed  to  glorious  Goldenrod. 

Its  home  is  in  the  sterile  soil 

Deserted  by  the  rustic  swain 
Because  it  yields  not  for  his  toil 

The  recompense  he  would  obtain. 
By  wall  and  ledge,  and  rock,  and  mound, 

Where'er  neglect  and  ruin  reign 
In  greatest  beauty  there  'tis  found, 

To  cheer  and  clothe  the  earth  again. 

Down  in  the  soul  there  dwells  a  thought 

That  finds  expression  not  in  word, 
That  counts  display  and  promise  naught 

Unless  a  voice  divine  is  heard, 
That  speaks  to  cheer  the  desolate, 

That  yields  a  balm  distilled  from  God; 
Whose  type  should  be  the  flower  of  State — 

The  sun-lit,  heaven-born  Goldenrod, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BUTTERCUPS   AND   DAISIES. 

DUTTERCUPS  and  daisies,— 

Bright  children  of  the  lawn — 
To  the  fields  are  nodding 

In  the  winds  of  June. 
Such  beauty  of  the  meadows 

Gives  a  charm  so  sweet,  so  strong, 
The  robin's  spirit  bursts  aloud 

In  animated  song. 

Buttercups  and  daisies 

Bloom  adown  the  narrow  lane, 
Beside  the  brook  in  pasture, 

And  over  the  wide  plain; 
Tangles  in  the  meadow 

Where  ten  million  flowers  bloom, 
Draw  bee  and  bird  and  squirrel, 

"With  their  beauty  and  perfume. 

Buttercups  and  daisies 

Aglow  in  morning  light, 
And  pendant  dew-drops  sparkling — 

Bright  diamonds  of  night — 
Send  a  matin  greeting 

To  the  rising  god  of  day, 
As  he  warms  them  gently 

With  his  golden  ray. 


88  OUR  PROFESSION 

Buttercups  and  daisies 

Are  jewels  to  be  Avorn 
By  all  sons  and  daughters 

Of  Nature,  truly  born ; 
They  speak  a  perfect  language, 

They  lead  to  the  divine, 
They  cheer  the  weak  and  weary 

They  strengthen  and  refine. 

Buttercups  and  daisies 

May  softly  o'er  me  bloom, 
When  I  am  sweetly  sleeping 

Within  my  restful  tomb, 
And  when  by  mortal  beings 

I  may  forgotten  be, 
The  buttercups  and  daisies 

Shall  be  dear  friends  to  me. 


Modest,  meek  anemone, 
Loved  wind-flower  of  the  spring, 
You  fill  our  hearts  with  gladness, 
For  with  your  smile  you  bring 
The  vitalizing  sunshine, 
The  fruitful  April  shower, 
The  pipe  of  feathered  songster, 
And  bud  of  sylvan  bower. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  89 


THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

T  remember  well,  in  my  boyhood's  romp, 

The  beautiful  flower  that  grew  near  the  swamp, 

With  its  spiral  screw 

Of  cerulean  hue, 

While  on  the  marge  of  its  petals  grew 
A  fringe,  such  as  art  never  weaves. 

I  plucked  it  with  zeal,  for  my  heart  was  aglow, 
Its  color  and  form,  my  mother  to  show, 

And  gladden  her  eyes 

With  the  exquisite  prize 
I  had  found  when  autumnal  zephyr  sighs 
'Mong  the  faded  flowers  and  leaves. 

Fair  emblem  of  maiden  adorned  as  a  bride, 
The  tin  tings  of  heaven  within  you  abide; 

You  smilingly  stand 

In  bridal  robe  grand, 
For  a  lover  who  offers  an  ardent  hand, 
And  a  heart  that  never  deceives. 

When  others  have  left  us,  we  cherish  the  one 
Who  remains  firm  and  faithful  till  vict'ry's  won; 

Though  cold  be  the  storm, 

The  heart  is  e'er  warm 

For  the  tried  and  true,  who  weave  such  a  charm 
Round  the  heart  of  him  who  receives. 


90  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE  DANDELION. 

JWl  EADOWS  are  dotted,  far  and  wide, 

"With  velvet  stars  that  bring 
A  golden  off  ring  of  delight, — 
Flower-goslings  of  the  spring. 

Then  gray-haired  pappus,  downy,  soft, 

Follows  with  pistils  loose, 
And  the  gosling  of  the  early  spring 

Becomes  a  white-fledged  goose. 

Its  feathers  float  on  ev'ry  breeze 
That  fans  the  verdant  mead, 

And  children  count  the  hours  of  day 
By  breaths  that  waft  the  seed. 

Soft,  silent  Time  that  comes  apace 
O'er  human  flowers  that  bloom, 

You  quickly  change  youth  to  old  age, 
And  lead  life  toward  the  tomb. 

Bright  turf-born  gosling  of  the  field, 

Teach  us  to  smile,  and  give 
A  perfume  from  a  fragrant  soul, 

That  on  and  on  shall  live. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  91 


THE  FLOWEES  I  LOVE. 

T  sometimes  think  I  love  the  rose 

More  than  all  other  flowers, 
Because  its  fragrance  falls  on  me 

In  copious,  dainty  showers; 
And  blushing  in  its  modesty, 

I  press  it  to  my  heart, 
As  the  idol  of  my  dalliance 

That  should  no  more  depart. 

But  when  I  see  the  lily  fair — 

The  meadow's  beauteous  queen — 
Surrounded  by  her  myriad  friends 

All  dressed  in  Nature's  green, 
My  heart  goes  out  in  ecstasy, 

And  naught  on  earth  to  me 
Seems  fairer  type  of  loveliness, 

Than  this  daughter  of  th'  lea. 

"When  bright  snow-flake-petaled  daisy, 

Whose  heart  of  yellow  gold, 
Is  richer  vein  of  pure  delight 

Than  miner-kings  may  hold, 
Sends  out  her  invitation  warm, 

To  search  in  her  domain 
For  berries  like  a  bleeding  heart, 

I  cannot  well  decline. 


92  OUR  PROFESSION 

And  then  the  graceful  goldenrod 

With  flaunting,  sun-lit  plume, 
Whose  lateness  lends  a  special  joy 

And  sweetness  to  its  bloom, 
Invites  me  with  its  wind-blown  nod, 

To  be  its  devotee, 
With  honesty  I  must  confess 

It  has  a  charm  for  me. 

There's  a  heaven-born  flower — the  aster, 

That  drinks  nocturnal  dews 
From  late  autumn's  chilly  fountains, 

And  steals  the  sunset  hues; 
It  smiles  from  wayside  tangles 

And  coyly  casts  its  eyes, 
Yet  holds  me  by  its  modesty 

A  voluntary  prize. 

I  know  not  which  I  love  the  most, — 

I  know  I  love  them  all, — 
For  God  hath  given  each  its  grace, 

And  each  its  special  call; 
Each  has  a  mission  to  perform, 

A  purpose  and  an  end, 
And  sweet  is  the  companionship 

Of  each  bright  flower-friend. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  93 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

JNDEK  the  brown  leaves  meekly  abiding, 

The  gem  of  the  spring-flowers  nestles  away, 
In  copse  near  th'  wood,  where  covertly  hiding, 
It  catches  the  glow  of  Aurora's  first  ray. 

Where  moss  and  leaf  are  strewn  in  profusion — 
A  bed  whereon  gods  might  gladly  repose — 

Apart  from  the  world,  in  rural  seclusion 
The  pride  of  the  moorland — arbutus  grows. 

In  mossy  fields,  'mong  refuse  of  bushes, 
With  rose-tinted  lips,  like  herald  of  morn, 

With  but  a  leaf  to  conceal  secret  blushes, 
Earth's  first  vernal  offspring  is  sweetly  born. 

Modest,  retiring,  and  beautiful  sprite, 
Emblem  of  graces  a  maiden  should  wear, 

Oreat  is  the  pleasure,  supreme  the  delight 
Of  searching  for  joys  such  coyness  doth  bear. 

Child  of  the  woodland  in  beauty  abiding, 

Whose  breath  scents  the  air  of  early  spring  morns, 

Fairies  of  magical  powers  are  residing 

In  nooks  and  valleys  your  presence  adorns. 

Oft  in  the  springtime  I  wander  away 

To  dwell  for  a  time  in  your  blest  retreat, 

Counting  such  pleasure  far  sweeter  to  me 
Than  bustle  of  city  or  thi-ong  of  the  street. 


94  OUK  PROFESSION 

THE  MORNING  GLORY. 

[On  being  requested  to  give  some  Morning  Glory  seeds.] 

T^HE  sunshine  seems  much  brighter, 

And  the  heart  is  ever  lighter, 
When  the  rays  of  sweet  Aurora 
Gild  the  radiant  morning  glory 
With  a  splendor,  such  as  heaven 
To  few  favorites  has  given 
Among  the  beautiful  rare  flowers. 
So  plant  these  seeds  with  care, 
In  a  place  well-chosen,  where 
The  first  rays  of  the  morning 
May  kiss  their  bright  adorning, 
And  teach  your  heart  to  see 
The  beauties  there  may  be 
In  the  early  morning  hours. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  95 


KYE. 

\A7HEN  pollen-dust  from  fields  of  rye 

Floats  out  on  the  dews  of  even, 
And  stars  of  June  bedeck  the  sky 

Of  mild  and  cloudless  heaven, 
"Tis  ecstasy  to  linger  near 

The  odor-laden  quivers, 
Whose  lance-like  arrows  then  appear 

To  be  our  pleasure-givers. 

"When  Luna  bright  is  wreathed  in  smiles, 

And  breathes  upon  the  flowers, 
A  billowy  greenness  oft  beguiles 

Our  minds  by  magic  powers; 
For  like  the  waves  of  ocean  grand 

When  tempest  winds  are  high, 
With  speed  sweep  by  the  waves  on  land, 

In  the  fields  of  liquid  rye. 

Fragrant  fields  of  beautiful  June, 

Whose  billowy,  graceful  green 
Is  a  mem'ry-gera  that  fades  too  soon 

From  childhood's  romantic  scene, 
Sweet  were  my  hours  of  ecstasy 

When  by  your  side  I  was  nigh; 
Joys  I  covet,  long  lost  to  me 

That  came  from  sweet  fields  of  rye. 


96  OUR  PROFESSION 


COMMUNION  WITH  NATURE. 

T~\ES  sweet  to  hold  communion 

With  Nature  true  and  wild, 
And  feel  the  thrill  of  gladness 

She  breathes  upon  her  child, 
When  close  upon  her  bosom 

We  press  the  listening  ear, 
And  fancy  that  the  minstrelsy 

Our  raptured  senses  hear, 
Is  sweeter  than  the  chorus 

By  angel  choirs  sung, 
Or  richer  than  vibrations 

Of  chords  so  deftly  strung, 
That  all  their  intonations 

Seem  blended  in  one  strain, 
By  touch  of  fairy  fingers 

Which  enchant  the  sweet  refrain. 

The  beauties  of  the  sunset 

Upon  the  evening  sky, 
When  necked  with  fleeting  vapors, 

Detached  and  awry, 
Give  colors  that  no  artist 

Save  God  alone  can  show 
To  eyes  that  seek  such  blendings, 

And  hearts  that  long  to  know 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  97 

The  hidden  things  in  Nature 

Which  ne'er  can  be  revealed 
To  those  who  find  not  heaven 

In  mountain,  sky,  and  field; 
For  they  who  live  the  nearest 

To  Nature's  self  shall  find 
Joy  boundless  as  the  ocean, 

As  pure  and  unconfined. 

Deep  in  the  leafy  forest 

A  thousand  tones  are  heard, — 
The  laughing,  dancing  brooklet, 

The  song  of  bright-winged  bird, 
The  buzz  of  bee  on  flower, 

The  leaf  by  breezes  fanned, 
The  hum  of  tiny  insect 

Whose  feeble  notes  command 
The  modulated  heart-beat 

To  know  the  great  decree, 
That  frees  the  mind  from  slavery 

And  sets  the  spirit  free, 
Through  knowledge  of  those  hidden  things 

Which  God  only  reveals 
To  him  who  loves  all  nature, 

And  for  a  brother  feels. 

The  dearest  and  the  sweetest 

Of  all  the  charms  on  earth, 
Are  those  that  link  our  natures 

To  feelings  that  have  birth 


98  OUK  PROFESSION 

When  leaf  and  flower  and  fruitage 

Steal  our  being  for  an  hour, 
And  we  are  half  unconscious 

Of  some  mysterious  power, 
That  leads  us  close  to  heaven, 

And  points  to  joys  supreme, 
Where  fields  and  flowers  and  happiness 

Are  not  an  idle  dream, 
But  a  true  and  soothing  heritage 

Whose  limit  has  no  end, 
Where  ev'ry  rock  and  tree  and  shrub 

Shall  prove  a  trusted  friend. 

If  heaven  is  not  shadowed 

Upon  our  spirit  mind, 
Through  all  its  gorgeous  tin  tings 

And  colorings  combined; 
If  Nature  has  no  language 

To  charm  the  ear  and  eye, 
And  brooks  and  birds  and  forests 

Afford  no  minstrelsy; 
If  waving  grain  and  orchards, 

Freighted  with  fragrance  rare, 
Draw  not  the  spirit  heavenward 

And  lift  the  soul  in  prayer; 
Then  orisons  are  soulless 

Though  voiced  on  bended  knee, 
And  small  must  be  our  knowledge 

Of  the  Great  Deity. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  99> 


MOUNTAIN  BKOOK. 

DENEATH  the  shade  deep  in  a  dell, 
Where  fairy  spirits  ever  dwell, — 

Away  from  haunts  of  men, 
A  living  thing  of  godlike  birth, 
By  Nature's  law  springs  from  the  earth 

To  gladden  vale  and  glen. 

Ten  thousand  fairies  clad  in  green 
Enliven  the  sequestered  scene, 

With  noiseless  dance  and  mirth, 
And  minstrelsy  of  heaven  conspires 
With  liquid  laughs  and  wind-played  lyres 

To  charm  the  scenes  of  earth. 

The  rocks  and  trees  bedecked  with  moss, 
The  million  leaves  with  shimmering  gloss 

Drink  from  the  dancing  spray, 
Which  rising  from  the  dashing  foam, 
Seeks  its  bright  aerial  home 

And  greets  the  orb  of  day. 

No  discord  here  my  spirit  jars, 
No  artful  smile  my  comfort  mars, 

For  Nature's  self  is  true; 
Here  beauty,  grace,  and  peace  conspire 
To  make  my  inmost  soul  desire 

Some  heart  with  kindred  view. 


100  OUR  PROFESSION 

Who  dwells  in  such  companionship, 
Builds  fountains  whence  the  soul  may  sip 

Heaven's  sweetest  gift  to  man, 
Sees  beauty  reign  as  God  designed, 
Has  purer  love  for  all  mankind, 

And  lives  near  Nature's  plan. 

Xioved  mountain  brook,  so  pure,  so  true, 
I'd  rather  spend  an  hour  with  you, 

And  harmonize  my  soul 
"With  the  sweet  melodies  you  sing, 
With  all  the  joy  your  concerts  bring, 

That  sit  where  flowing  bowl 

And  jocund  laugh  of  merry  crowd 
In  accents  wild,  profane,  and  loud, 

Break  on  the  midnight  air; 
For  you  bring  peace  and  joy  and  rest, 
Refreshment  for  a  mind  distressed, 

And  banish  grief  and  care. 

When  I  shall  sleep  my  final  sleep, 
Pain  would  I  rest  where  you  will  keep 

A  tuneful  voice  for  me; 
Then  to  my  spirit  will  be  given 
The  foretaste  of  a  promised  heaven — 

Nature's  sweet  harmonv. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  101 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  BROOK. 

sylvan  spirit  singing  so  sweetly, 
Dancing  to  measures  tliat  flow  with  your  song; 
Frolic  your  fairy  feet  faultlessly,  fleetly, 

As  down  the  mountain  vale  haste  you  along. 

Babbling  buoyantly  by  banks  and  bushes, 
Laughingly  onward  you  speed  to  the  sea, 

While  from  your  mossy  sides,  joyously  gushes 
Fountains  from  Nature's  bowl,  healthful  and  free. 

Naiads  and  Nymphs  hold  revels  at  midnight, 
Dancing  to  music  that  swells  from  your  flow; 

Dryad  and  Faun  peep  out  at  the  moonlight, 

Thro'  rents  in  green  curtains  that  over  you  grow. 

Here  would  I  pour  my  soul  out  in  wooing 
The  spirit  that  dwells  in  your  charmed  home; 

Here  would  I  linger  gladly,  if  knowing 
My  waiting  might  lead  it  at  last  to  come. 

Let  me  while  here  with  you  catch  the  spirit 
Of  peace  and  comfort  abiding  in  you, 

Then  will  my  Nature  truly  inherit 

A  love  for  the  beautiful,  noble,  and  true. 


102  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE  STKEAM'S  STOKY. 

T  sat  me  down  in  a  forest  old, 

Beside  a  low  murmuring  stream; 
I  lent  my  ear  to  the  tale  it  told, 

For  'twas  more  than  fancy's  dream; 

It  spoke  of  days  when  the  earth  was  young, 

When  it  flowed  more  cheerfully, 
"When  its  water  sang  the  rocks  among, 

As  they  danced  down  toward  the  sea. 

"  In  the  ancient  days  my  banks  were  filled, 

Nor  shrank  I  from  heat  or  frost, 
For  the  shaded,  moss-crowned  earth  then  held 

The  drops,  so  that  none  were  lost. 

"  The  old  forest  then  stretched  far  away, 
And  its  sheltering  arms  embraced 

Sweet  perfumed  plants  and  flowerets  gay, 
Whose  lives  long  ago  have  ceased. 

•"  For  the  sturdy  woodman  plied  the  blade 

And  the  forest  soon  lay  low; 
Then  the  burning  sun  and  the  want  of  shade 

Soon  shrank  my  full  crystal  flow. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  103 

"Now  when  the  rain  comes,  my  waters  roar, 

And  my  spoils  are  sad  to  see, 
For  the  earth-vaults  where  I  kept  my  store, 

Hold  no  surplus  now  for  me. 

"Man's  greed  for  wealth  has  my  beauty  marred 

And  robbed  me  of  early  joys, 
But  I  sing  again,  with  hope  restored, 

When  I  see  the  girls  and  boys 

"Who  come  with  their  songs  in  merry  May, 

O'er  valley,  hill,  and  plain, 
To  plant  young  trees  on  this  Arbor  Day, 

So  in  joy  I  smile  again." 


To  wander  all  day,  by  a  purling  stream 

That  flows  through  some  mossy  dell, 
And  watch  its  silvery  waters  gleam, 

And  list  to  its  music's  swell 
As  it  dashes  down  some  wild  cascade, 

On  its  race  to  the  wide,  wide  sea, 
With  sweeter  strains  than  old  Orpheus  played, 

Is  supreme  delight  to  me. 


104  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE  SECOND  SUNDAY  IN  MAY. 

O OFTLY  the  breezes  dance  o'er  the  meadows, 

Wafting  the  perfume  of  sweet-scented  May; 
Flecked  are  the  green  fields  with  sunshine  and  shadows, 
Telling  so  gently  of  earth's  perfect  day. 

From  moss-covered  rocks  whereon  we  are  seated, 
Nature  spreads  scenes  such  as  art  cannot  yield; 

With  flowers  of  rare  beauty  our  vision  is  greeted, 
Our  ears,  with  the  bird-notes  of  forest  and  field. 

Dogwood  with  tints  from  pink  to  pure  whiteness, 
Columbine  crimson  with  pinnacled  sheen, 

Pinks  of  carnation,  and  orchards  in  brightness, 
Vie  with  the  meadows  of  velvety  green. 

The  bobolink  chatters  in  notes  of  perfection, 
The  oriole  sings  a  love-song  to  his  mate, 

The  whippoorwill  clings  to  his  perch  for  protection, 
The  crow  laughs  ha !  ha !  when  the  evening  grows^late. 

Squirrel  and  humming-bird  flit  by  like  spirits, 
Jack-in-the-pulpit  stands  ready  to  preach, 

The  roll  of  the  anthem  the  wood-choir  inherits, 
Surpasses  the  harmony  mortals  can  reach. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  105 

The  song  of  the  bird-note,  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
The  tinkling  of  waters,  the  bursting  of  leaves, 

The  perfume  of  flowers,  the  blossoming  tree, 
Are  sermons  from  Nature  the  pulpit  ne'er  gives. 

My  soul  sings  with  these,  with  these  has  communion, 
They  lift  me  in  thought  to  realms  pure  and  bright ; 

They  speak  of  a  Nature  with  which  to  have  union 
Dispels  all  my  sorrows  and  gives  me  delight. 

Every  sigh  of  the  breeze,  every  note  of  wild  bird, 
Every  plan^  that  springs  up  from  earth's  fertile  sod, 

Are  sermons  of  eloquence  when  rightly  heard, 
That  soothe  me  and  bring  me  nearer  to  Grod. 


NATURE'S  CHILD. 

f   would  rather  dwell  with  Nature 

And  be  her  favored  child, 
To  love  plant,  tree,  and  creature 
That  live  in  forest  wild; 
And  feel  the  satisfaction 
That  I  can  understand 
The  beauty  and  attraction 
Of  motives,  noble,  grand, 
That  fashioned  for  man's  pleasure 
This  brilliant  world  of  ours, 
Than  possess  the  jeweled  treasure 
Of  all  earth's  kingly  powers. 


106  OUK  PROFESSION 


LAKE  GEOKGE,  N.  Y. 

,  beautiful  Horicon! 
Over  thy  waters  so  blue, 
Sunshine  and  shadow  in  silence  flit  on, 
Painting  fresh  scenes  on  the  ecstatic  view. 

Blue  are  the  skies  that  kiss  the  green  tops 

Of  sentinel  mountains  grand, 
Pure  are  the  waters  descending  in  drops, 

Or  rushing  in  torrents  from  mountain  to  strand. 

Like  emerald  crowns  thy  islands  rise, 

And  mirrored  back  are  doubly  seen 
Gray  rocks  of  the  mountains,  the  cloud-flecked  skies, 

Gorgeous  adornments,  and  fringes  of  green. 

Silent  and  wild  are  the  fairy  shores 

Save  song  of  the  warbling  bird, 
Or  the  glen  wherein  the  cataract  roars, 

Or  the  pine  tree's  branch  by  strong  breezes  stirred. 

When  sunset  purples  the  dark  ravine 

And  throws  crimson  on  thy  breast, 
Soft- tinged  are  the  hues  that  e'er  lie  between 

Thy  shores  and  the  peaks  that  rise  in  the  west. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  107 

I  see  in  my  fancy  days  long  past, 

I  hear  the  brave  soldier's  song, 
The  bugle  that  summoned  hosts  at  its  blast, 

Whose  notes  died  in  echoes  the  green  shores  along. 

I  see  in  the  past  ten-thousand  oars, 

And  a  thousand  boats  so  grand, 
As  they  leave  the  marge  of  thy  southern  shores 

To  meet  the  French  foes  of  Montcalm's  command. 

I  see  Abercrombie  grandly  brave 

With  his  fifteen  thousand  men, 
Glide  swiftly,  silently  over  the  wave 

To  contest  from  which  many  came  not  again. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  Horicon ! 

How  changed  is  the  scene  to-day, 
The  pageant  of  war  and  carnage  is  gone 

Thy  waters  now  bear  the  light-hearted  and  gay. 


Who  loves  devoutly  Nature  wild, 

And  sees  in  her  a  Master's  hand, 
Will  seldom  be  a  wayward  child 

Though  foul  temptations  round  him  stand. 
Magnetic  forces  draw  him  back 

From  following  low  and  slavish  ways, 
His  soul  revolts  at  the  attack 

That  foe  of  Nature — Vice,  displays. 


108  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE  THRUSH. 

on  mountain  road  I  travel, 
Stained  with  dust  and  dirt  and  gravel, 
In  cool  shade  I  sit  me  down; 
Oft  I  see  among  the  bushes 
Feathered  friends — shy  brown  thrushes, 
Sweetest  singers  of  renown. 

Smooth  his  coat  though  brown  and  dusty, 
His  mellow  voice  is  ever  trusty 

And  clear  and  soft  and  sweet; 
On  the  tree-top  oft  he's  singing, 
In  the  woods  his  voice  is  ringing 

"While  hills  his  notes  repeat. 

I  have  heard  him  in  the,  morning 
When  the  sun  was  just  adorning 

Tops  of  tallest  forest  trees, 
Pour  his  soul  of  song  so  tender, 
That  to  God  he  seemed  to  render 

Thanksgiving  harmonies. 

Every  feather  he  did  quiver, 
As  his  song  he  would  deliver 

In  bursts  so  wild  and  grand, 
That  creation's  face  would  gladden 
As  the  air  with  music  laden 

Seemed  fraught  with  choral  band. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  109 

Some  notes  that  swelled  his  speckled  breast 
Were  like  soft  zephyrs  from  the  west 

That  fall  on  June-blown  flowers ; 
So  full,  so  sweet,  they  lull  the  soul, 
And  like  a  spirit  voice  control 

My  reveries  for  hours. 

Soulful  song,  enwrapped  in  feather, 
Harbinger  of  pleasant  weather, 

Sing  softly  unto  me. 
Your  tuneful  notes  at  morn  and  even 
Are  antepasts  of  joys  in  heaven 

That  bring  filicity. 

Attune  your  joyous  song  for  me, 
And  lift  my  soul  that  it  may  see 

The  world  in  beauty  bright; 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  until  the  wood 
Shall  laugh  aloud  in  merry  mood, 

And  sadness  take  her  flight ! 

Sweet  warbling  bird  in  brown  attire, 
Your  notes  of  praise  do  me  inspire 

With  love  for  Nature  wild; 
Your  songs  of  joy  so  sweetly  sung, 
By  heart  and  throat  divinely  strung, 

Proclaim  you  Nature's  child. 


110  OUR  PROFESSION 


ROBIN  REDBREAST. 

[    OW  and  soft  and  plaintive, 
Now  distant  and  now  near, 
Is  the  voice  of  Robin  Redbreast, 
That  in  the  tree  I  hear. 

Sometimes  'tis  but  a  murmur, 

So  gentle  and  so  sweet, 
It  sounds  like  a  dying  zephyr 

That  echo  doth  repeat. 

And  then  in  bursts  of  music 
That  make  the  forests  ring, 

Comes  the  swelling,  happy  ditty 
His  birdship  loves  to  sing. 

And  the  voice  is  so  enchanting, 

So  perfect  and  so  clear, 
All  earth  stands  still  to  listen, 

And  the  clouds  bend  low  to  hear. 

Again  he  tunes  his  liquid  note 
To  winds  in  tree-tops  sighing, 

Or  to  the  sound  of  waters 

That  o'er  the  rocks  are  playing. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  Ill 

The  sprightly,  sweet  ventriloquist 

Deceives  you  as  to  distance, 
You  sometimes  think  him  far  away 

Beyond  alarm's  resistance, 

And  then  again,  you  think  him  near 

The  place  you  are  abiding; 
He's  in  the  same  place  all  the  time, 

In  covert  he  is  hiding, 

And  telling  you  in  measured  notes 

His  mate  is  yonder  nesting, 
While  in  the  shade  of  leafy  tree 

Near  by  in  song  he's  resting. 

Had  I  so  sweet  a  voice  as  his 

I'd  carol  all  day  long, 
Charm  with  my  presence  all  mankind, 

And  cheer  them  with  my  song. 

The  woods  and  fields  should  echo  far 

My  choicest  minstrelsy, 
While  earth  and  sky  would  both  unite 

To  join  the  revelry. 


112  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE  FARMER. 

war  and  love  some  poets  sing, 
And  some  of  fame  and  glory, 
But  few  there  are  a  tribute  bring 

To  him  whose  only  story 
Is  written  on  the  sterile  soil 

With  hand  of  honest  labor, 
Whose  plow  and  hoe  bespeak  a  toil 
More  grand  than  gory  sabre. 

My  muse  will  sing  of  such  as  these, 

And  claim  a  wreath  of  laurel, 
To  crown  each  sturdy  Hercules 

Whose  only  wish  to  quarrel, 
Is  with  the  forest  and  the  field 

To  make  them  rich  and  fairer, 
To  make  old  mother  earth  to  yield 

Her  fruits  and  flowers  e'en  rarer. 

Let  merchants  in  the  busy  marts 

Think  farmers  are  mere  cattle, 

But  they  who  know  the  farmers'  hearts 

And  of  his  earnest  battle 
With  thorns  and  thistles  scattered  wide, 

Like  earth's  destructive  Neros, 
Well  know  they  are  our  country's  pride- 

Our  Nation's  greatest  heroes. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  113 

The  lily-fingered,  pale-faced  men 

Who  live  by  "A  Profession," 
Need  not  despise  the  farmer,  when 

He  makes  some  slight  digression 
Upon  what  they  call  etiquette ; 

For  in  his  heart  he's  civil; 
Though  rough  his  hand,  his  brow  asweat, 

His  heart  is  free  from  evil. 

He  toils  from  early  morn  till  night, 

Yet  he  is  "Independent;  " 
For  Nature's  God  defends  the  right, 

And  holds  a  crown  resplendent 
To  place  upon  His  honored  child 

Whose  life  is  heavy  laden, 
But  keeps  a  spirit  undefiled 

To  enter  into  Eden. 


Though  brown  and  dusty  be  his  garb 
From  wrestling  with  the  soil, 

The  farmer  is  God's  nobleman, 
Made  so,  by  honest  toil. 


114  OUB  PROFESSION 

THE   OLD  FAKM. 

T^HE  dear  old  farm  has  a  sacred  charm 

That  extends  to  farthest  bound, 
Every  rock  and  tree  is  dear  to  me, 
And  hallowed  seems  the  ground. 

Its  beautiful  stream  whose  waters  gleam 

As  they  dance  on  to  the  sea, 
Sings  sweeter  song,  as  it  moves  along, 

Than  other  waters  to  me. 

No  leaves  are  so  green,  as  those  that  screen 
The  revered  old  farm-house  doors, 

From  the  burning  sun  of  torrid  June 
When  his  fiercest  rays  he  pours. 

Each  grove  and  field  doth  a  mem'ry  yield 
Of  dear  childhood's  blissful  hours, 

And  in  accents  clear,  voices  I  hear 
That  have  now  augmented  powers. 

My  father's  care  and  my  mother's  prayer 
Are  now  ended  here  on  earth, 

But  as  time  rolls  on,  since  they  have  gone, 
I  shall  understand  their  worth. 

There's  a  sacred  charm  in  the  dear  old  farm, 
For  loved  ones  have  trod  its  soil, 

And  much  I  now  see,  appears  to  me 
As  fruit  of  their  faithful  toil. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  115 


MAPLE   AT   MY  FATHER'S   DOOR 

velvet  green  of  grassy  floor, 
'Neath  maple  at  my  father's  door 
My  couch  at  eve  has  been; 
There  gazing  on  the  tranquil  sky, 
"With  all  its  astral  brilliancy, 
My  spirit  sang  within. 

Then  far  away  beyond  the  blue, 
On  Fancy's  wings  my  vision  flew 

And  scanned  the  realms  of  space; 
Then  like  a  dove  far  from  her  nest, 
Returned  to  find  a  perfect  rest 

Within  its  dwelling  place. 


116  OUK  PROFESSION 

OCEANUS'  MIRROR,  TRINITY  LAKE,  N.  Y. 

[See  Note  on  "Fidelity."] 

T  'VE  been  charmed  by  many  a  picture, 

That  has  brought  its  master  renown; 
I  have  looked  on  beautiful  valleys 

From  the  mountain's  lofty  crown; 
I  have  gazed  on  the  sky  at  evening, 

When  the  heavens  were  all  aglow, 
But  they  fail  to  charm  me  so  fully 

As  this  scene  in  the  waters  below. 

Fair  Trinity  lay  in  her  beauty, 

Not  a  ripple  was  on  her  breast, 
Her  borders  of  hemlocks  and 'mosses 

With  beautiful  flowers  were  dressed; 
Clear  as  the  air  on  her  bosom 

Were  her  waters  so  pure  and  deep, 
They  seemed  like  the  magical  mirror 

That  Flora  and  Nereus  keep. 

Where  the  rocks  and  trees  bend  over 

The  marge  of  her  western  shore, 
The  boat  glided  slowly  onward 

Without  the  aid  of  the  oar; 
When  glancing  the  eye  at  the  shadows 

Reflected  from  shore  near  at  hand, 
There  appeared  a  bright  panorama, 

Most  charming — exquisitely  grand. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  117 

Down,  down,  far  down  in  the  waters, 

And  touching  the  brink  of  the  lake, 
Was  a  picture  no  master  painter 

With  pencil  or  brush  could  make; 
Gray  rocks,  green  trees,  and  bright  flowers, 

Inverted  and  magnified,  too, 
Seemed  perfect  in  all  but  proportion 

And  their  upturned  chimerical  view. 

It  seemed  like  a  fairy  enchantment 

Inviting  to  feasts  down  below, 
Where  grottoes  and  caverns  of  beauty 

Illumine  the  flowers  that  grow 
To  charm  the  nymphs  of  the  water, 

And  beguile  all  the  sylvan  elves 
To  the  table  of  old  Oceanus, 

Where  guests  ever  help  themselves. 

Some  spirit  seemed  calling  me  sweetly, 

Inviting  me  then  to  partake 
Of  the  fanciful  pleasures  reflected 

Far  down  in  the  clear,  placid  lake. 
O,  beautiful  scene  of  reflection ! 

So  perfect,  so  grand,  and  so  pure, 
In  my  mind  that  mirror  enchantment 

To  the  end  of  my  days  must  endure. 


118  OUR  PROFESSION 


MORNING  FLOWERS. 

THE  flowers  all  wash  their  faces  fair 

With  the  dews  of  the  smiling  morn, 
Then  turn  to  greet  the  god  of  the  air 
As  his  light  in  the  east  is  born. 

They  call  th'  breeze  from  th'  slumb'ring  west 

And  a  censer  place  in  his  hand, 
Then  mingle  perfumes,  choicest,  best, 

To  waft  o'er  the  festive  land. 

The  flower  of  th'  heart  may  lave  in  deeds 

That  refresh  the  worthy  poor, 
And  th'  soul's  perfume  is  that  which  feeds 

The  hungry,  weak,  and  sore. 


There's  food  for  thought  in  every  leaf 

That  spring  unfolds  to  pleasure's  eye; 
There's  wisdom  in  the  falling  drop 

That  had  its  birth  in  yonder  sky. 
The  breeze  that  fans  the  fevered  brow, 

Or  gives  new  vigor  to  frail  man, 
Is  but  the  breath  of  the  Divine 

Sent  to  fulfill  benignant  plan. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  119 


'ARTIST  NATURE. 

\X7HEN  Aurora  springs  from  her  couch  of  clouds 

And  opens  the  gate  of  a  perfect  day, 
And  her  brother  Sol  in  his  daily  rounds 

Advances  his  steeds  toward  Polaris'  ray, 
Then  the  vernal  bloom  and  the  warbling  bird 

That  follow  his  track  as  he  speeds  along, 
Send  their  fragrance  pure  on  the  morning  air, 

And  fill  leafy  groves  with  ecstatic  song. 

Oceanus  lends  invisible  bowls, 

"Well  filled  with  vapors  that  rise  from  his  breast, 
Eurus  is  summoned  to  waft  them  afar 

And  scatter  abroad  in  the  distant  west, 
Where  Sol  with  his  brush  and  an  artist's  touch, 

Paints  on  the  sky  all  the  glories  of  heaven, 
In  colors  more  bright  and  blendings  more  true, 

Than  ever  on  canvas  by  mortal  was  given. 

One  sunset  scene  in  Hesperian  sky, 

When  the  courts  of  heaven  are  all  ablaze 
With  the  glorious  tints  and  pageantry 

That  to  mortal  mind  so  clearly  portrays 
The  mighty  power  of  omnipotent  hand, 

And  the  tender  touch  of  a  boundless  love, 
Is  an  omen  true — infallible  proof 

Of  a  Deity  who  presides  above. 


120  OUR  PROFESSION 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


MUSIC. 

AA/HEN  musical  chords  are  tensioned 
To  sentiments  they  should  express, 
And  touched  by  a  master  artist 

Whose  deft  hand  gives  the  proper  stress, 
The  effect  is  so  ecstatic 

When  vibrations  fall  on  the  ear, 
The  soul  stands  in  silent  rapture, 

And  our  being  expands  to  hear. 

At  skillful  touch  of  the  master 

A  creation  of  joy  is  given, 
That  lends  to  the  spirit  pinions 

To  waft  it  away  toward  heaven, 
While  it  sings  to  the  same  measure 

And  becomes  a  part  of  the  song, 
Enraptured  by  the  magic  power 

Which  carries  it  gently  along. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  121 

O  the  magic  power  of  tension 

When  a  master  hand  has  control! 
It  wins  the  heart's  approbation 

And  augments  the  receptive  soul; 
'Tis  a  rapture  born  in  heaven 

To  entrance  our  expectant  ears, 
'Tis  angelic  diapason 

Such  as  harmonized  once  the  spheres. 

We  each  have  an  organ,  tensioned 

With  a  thousand  strings  and  their  keys, 
All  made  by  a  Master  builder 

Who  permits  us  ourselves  to  please; 
Its  wonderful  combinations 

Far  surpass  all  the  works  of  art, 
'Tis  the  master-piece  of  creation — 

The  versatile,  strange,  human  heart. 

We  have  sole  choice  of  the  music 

That  shall  sound  on  the  tensioned  strings; 
We  may  choose  if  sad  or  joyous 

Shall  be  the  final  note  it  sings; 
Though  fate  may  fling  fiercest  chaos, 

Its  Maker  reserved  to  us  powers 
That  we  need  not  ever  surrender, 

For  the  strength  to  possess  is  ours. 


122  OUR  PROFESSION 

Let  my  tongue  sing  songs  of  rapture 

And  my  heart-strings  sweetly  respond, 
Till  the  notes  shall  pass  earth's  border 

And  reach  the  bright  portals  beyond; 
And  when  in  the  great  hereafter 

The  tension  shall  be  much  increased, 
My  joys  will  be  there  augmented 

To  know  that  earth's  songs  have  not  ceased. 


I  often  long  for  some  quiet  nook 

Away  from  the  noise  and  strife 
Which  come  from  the  steady  daily  round 

That  absorbs  my  busy  life ; 
Away  in  some  shadowy  forest 

Whose  silence  is  supreme, 
Save  the  song  of  feathered  minstrel 

And  the  murmur  of  a  stream; 
Far  away  among  the  dark  shadows 

That  form  Fauna's  trysting-bowers, — 
But  the  time  of  this  total  seclusion 

Should  ne'er  exceed  six  hours. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  123 


BEST. 

"\A7HEN  wearisome  task  is  finished 

And  flesh  with  fatigue  is  oppressed, 
When  muscles  are  tired  and  languid 

And  sinews  are  sorely  distressed, 
No  balm  can  renew  their  vigor 

Like  that  boon  from  heaven  called  rest. 

We  know  not  its  composition, 
Nor  can  we  expound  all  its  laws, 

We  grant  the  effect  is  pleasant 
Tho'  we  cannot  explain  the  cause; 

We  therefore  accept  the  blessing 
And  bid  curiosity  pause. 

Foremost  in  its  rank  of  agents 
Is  a  heavenly  maid  called  Sleep, 

Who  stands  in  unbroken  silence, 
And  ever  her  watch  will  keep 

O'er  mortals  whose  labors  and  trials 
Seem  heavy,  oppressive,  and  deep. 

Sometimes  when  sorrows  are  deepest 

This  maiden  refuses  relief; 
She's  no  balm  for  the  broken-hearted, 

No  cure  for  a  head  bowed  with  grief, 
No  soothing  touch  for  the  anguish 

That  robs  like  a  heartless  thief. 


124  OUR  PROFESSION 

She  flies  from  deep  woe  and  sorrow 
And  recedes  from  the  blinding  tear; 

Yet  hastes  to  fatigue  and  trials 
And  offers  to  them  smiles  of  cheer 

Such  as  turn  to  joy  and  gladness, 
Murky  doubt  and  foreboding  fear. 

When  death  shall  release  the  spirit 
From  its  prison-house  of  vile  clay, 

It  will  speed  to  an  elysian 
Of  a  cloudless,  unending  day, 

Where  with  others  of  its  kindred, 
It  will  find  a  rest  for  ave. 


A  pleasant  pastime  is  my  pen 

Well  filled  with  murkyjink, 
When  in  my  solitary  den 

I  sit  for  hours  to  think, 
And  trace  my  thoughts  in  liquid  flow 

"Upon  some  virgin  page, 
That  in  the  future  it  may  show 

What  thoughts  my  mind  engage. 


AND  OTHEE  POEMS.  125 


SUCCESS. 

OUCCESS  knows  no  diminution, 

For  failure  hovers  so  near, 
That  with  trace  of  slight  dilution, 
Success  must  cease  to  appear. 

We  look  in  vain  for  a  substitute 
To  take  the  place  of  success; 

A  proxy  saps  its  vital  cords, 
It  dies  of  paralysis. 

Nothing-  can  take  the  place  of  success, 
Its  measure  must  be  complete, 

If  slightest  imperfection  is  found 
It  suffers  a  deadly  defeat. 

The  marge  that  divides  sturdy  success 
From  failure  grim  and  gaunt, 

Is  invisible  space,  but  separates 
Abundance  from  woe  and  want. 

Like  pack  of  wolves  on  army's  trail j 
Fell  failure  lives  on  distress, 

Devouring  with  greed  th'  foul  refuse 
That  falls  from  th'  hands  of  success. 


126  OUR  PROFESSION 

Success  and  failure  closely  abide — 

Success  has  a  palace  fine, 
While  failure  dwells  in  a  dreary  hut, 

Like  a  herding  place  for  swine. 

Success  may  not  always  achieve 

The  object  it  has  in  view, 
But  lives  while  its  motives  and  acts 

Are  earnest,  noble,  and  true. 

True  failure  can  only  be  found 
In  a  being  devoid  of  heart, 

Whose  efforts  and  deeds  are  all  dead, 
Or  act  but  a  sluggard's  part. 

Success  has  a  heart  that  can  sing, 
A  hand  and  a  spirit  to  try, 

A  word  that  is  fraught  with  good  cheer, 
A  soul  that  illumines  the  eye. 

Failure  is  cheerless,  sullen,  and  glum, 
His  hand  hanging  idly  by, 

His  voice  is  an  echo  of  woe, 
His  face  distorted,  awry. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  127 

FRAGMENTS. 

'"THIS  world  was  made  of  fragments 

Each  separate  from  the  other, 
Yet  in  such  close  relation 
As  to  indicate  a  brother. 

Each  atom  of  the  universe 

Has  in  itself  attraction, 
That  finds  response  so  much  allied 

To  voluntary  action, 

That  one  might  quickly  recognize 

A  power,  supreme,  benign, 
That  emanates  from  master  hand 

With  forces  so  divine, 

That  every  touch  which  nature  gives 

To  matter  or  to  mind, 
Must  indicate  creative  power 

Superior  to  mankind. 

"What  scientist  can  ever  tell 

The  mainspring  of  all  action, 
If  all  his  reasons  fail  so  prove 

Molecular  attraction  ? 

It  has  its  source  from  out  the  space, 

Beyond  the  astral  heaven; 
It  had  a  purpose  to  perform, 

Or  it  had  not  been  given. 


128  OUR  PROFESSION 

We  may  not  know  its  secret  laws 
Or  understand  its  source, 

But  faith  has  taught  us  to  be  wise 
And  recognize  its  force. 

Of  all  the  teeming  millions  now 
Upon  this  mundane  sphere, 

Not  one  can  give  a  reason 
For  his  living  presence  here. 

'Tis  strange,  and  yet  we  know  'tis  true, 
We  constantly  are  dying, 

All  things  are  old,  nothing  is  new, 
And  life  with  death  is  vying. 

We  know  not  when  this  all  will  cease, 

We  cannot  understand 
Why  matter  never  may  increase, 

Or  seas  become  dry  land. 

Enough  we  know  to  serve  the  end 
For  which  we  were  designed, 

God  never  yet  was  known  to  send 
The  blind  to  lead  the  blind. 

If  we  but  act  an  honest  part, 
And  use  the  powers  given, 
When  from  this  earth  we  shall  depart, 
We  may  be  wise  in  heaven. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  129 


A  BEACON  LIGHT. 

A  DOWN  the  vistas  of  the  past 

I  cast  my  memory's  eye, 
And  see  bright  scenes  receding  fast, — 

Some  hopes  in  ruins  lie; 
Yet  still  there  shines  a  beacon  light 

Whose  ray  on  me  descends, 
And  shows  in  its  effulgency 
A  circle  of  true  friends. 

The  magic  charm  this  circle  yields 

Is  richer  far  to  me, 
Than  cattle  in  a  thousand  fields 

Or  gems  from  the  deep  sea; 
It  whispers  softly  in  my  ears 

And  cheers  me  on  my  way, 
Gives  faith  for  doubt  and  murky  fears, 

And  comfort  for  dismay. 


130  OUR  PROFESSION 


MEMORY. 

ARTHLY  scenes  are  worth  preserving, 

Bitter  though  they  sometimes  be; 
Who  would  wish  to  sink  in  Lethe 

All  the  fruits  of  Memory  ? 
None  could  dare  offend  his  Maker 

By  a  wish  so  rash  and  vain; 
For  by  this  kind  boon  from  Heaven 
Life  is  all  lived  o'er  again. 

In  the  silent  hour  of  twilight, 

Thoughts  of  by-gone  days  will  come, 
Stealing  o'er  our  better  feelings, 

Bringing  back  our  early  home; 
All  the  soothing  words  of  friendship 

Spoken  by  a  tongue  now  still, 
Touch  the  fountains  near  our  heart-strings, 

And  our  eyes  with  moisture  fill. 

Tender,  oh,  how  sweetly  tender, 

Are  the  musings  of  an  hour, 
When  the  mellowing  scenes  around  us 

Give  to  Memory  magic  power: 
Thought  recalls  those  scenes  long  parted, 

Life  epitomized  appears, 
Moments  then  reflect  a  lifetime 

Reaching  back  through  many  years. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  131 

Oh,  how  blessed  are  those  moments ! 

Present  scenes  can  never  fire 
Such  a  rapture  in  our  bosom 

As  fond  Memory  can  inspire; 
Naught  on  earth  can  e'er  be  spoken 

To  attract  the  living  ear, 
Like  the  words  of  the  departed 

Uttered  when  among  us  here. 

Time  and  Death  have  made  them  sacred, 

Memory  calls  them  oft  to  mind, 
And  her  choicest,  dearest  treasures, 

She  for  them  has  oft  entwined; 
This  is  but  a  simple  homage, 

Bichly  paying  him  who  kneels; 
He  who's  prompted  by  such  feelings, 

For  his  fellow  being  feels. 

Dark  must  be  that  soul  enshrouded, 

"Which  Oblivion  would  prefer 
To  the  soothing  power  of  Memory 

And  the  influence  shed  by  her : 
Life  itself  is  not  worth  having 

If  deprived  of  such  a  bliss, 
Earth  has  not  another  treasure 

That  we  may  compare  with  this. 


132  OUR  PROFESSION 


DISCONTENT. 

[   ET  quiet  people  talk  of  peace — 

Contentment  of  the  mind, 
But  lie  who  lives  at  perfect  ease 
Can  never  bless  mankind. 

If  each  no  higher  end  should  seek 
Than  that  which  now  he  fills, 

But  be  content,  subdued,  and  meek, 
'Twould  bring  a  thousand  ills. 

Advancement  then  would  have  an  end, 
Progression  then  would  cease, 

Invention  have  no  earnest  friend, 
And  science  no  increase. 

But  Discontent,  though  called  a  fiend, 

Is  progress  in  disguise, 
'Tis  this  by  which  our  end's  attained, 

'Tis  this  by  which  we  rise. 

The  pupil  may  surpass  the  sage 

If  such  his  aim  shall  be, 
May  fathom  truths  for  many  an  age 

Were  wrapped  mystery. 


AND  OTHEB  POEMS.  13$ 

The  genius  may  invent  some  plan 

To  ease  the  laborer's  toil, 
Or  add  facility  for  man 

To  cultivate  the  soil. 

Contentment  never  did  aspire 

To  elevate  mankind, 
It  never  raised  the  standard  higher 

Of  science  or  of  mind. 

'Tis  Discontent  that  gains  the  prize 

In  every  useful  art; 
Although  it  brings  us  tearful  eyes 

And  restlessness  of  heart; 

But  then  it  has  a  sweet  reward — 

Progression  is  the  fruit, 
But  some  this  sweetness  have  abhorred 

For  others  have  the  boot. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  mankind, 

Himself  is  seldom  blessed, 
And  he  whose  deeds  should  be  enshrined 

Will  seldom  be  caressed. 

Yet,  let  our  banner  ne'er  be  furled, 

Our  lives  in  quiet  spent; 
For  'tis  a  truth  that  all  the  world 

Still  thrives  on  Discontent. 


134  OUE  PROFESSION 


OUE  POLITICS. 

"  The  purification  of  politics  is  an  iridescent  dream." 

U.  S.  Senator,  JOHN  J.  INGALLS,  Kansas. 

"PURIFICATION  of  politics 

Is  an  iridescent  dream," 
Is  the  Ingalls  way  of  saying  that 
Corruption's  power's  supreme. 

Have  the  people  lost  their  honesty, 

Has  the  Nation  sunk  so  low, 
That  partisan  strife  can  blind  our  eyes 

Till  we  know  not  friend  from  foe  ? 

If  such  be  true,  this  fair  land  of  ours 

Must  fail  to  mature  the  Hope 
That  blossomed  fair  on  Liberty's  tree, 

But  in  impotence  must  grope. 

Beautiful  land!  God's  own  favored  land! 

Thy  sons  must  united  be, 
Statesmen  should  now  hold  the  public  helm, 

Throw  factions  into  the  sea, 

Teach  politicians  with  all  their  schemes, 

The  people  yet  are  supreme; 
That  Augean  stables — politics — 

May  be  cleansed  by  ballot's  streams. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  135 


SUNSET. 

C  OFTLY  the  tints  of  expiring  day 

Tinge  th'  vaults  of  Hesperian  heaven, 
Leaving  a  trace  of  the  sun's  mellow  ray 
To  escort  the  shadows  of  even. 

All  of  the  gates  of  Phoebus  are  drawn, 
Yet  his  splendor  has  left  to  sight 

A  trail  of  enchantment  to  linger  till  dawn, 
To  charm  the  still  hours  of  the  night. 

Scenes  of  such  cloud-land  often  reveal 
A  grandeur  that  augments  the  soul; 

Heaven  has  no  beauties  it  seeks  to  conceal, 
No  secrets  incribed  on  its  scroll. 

Through  the  earth  for  an  age  we  may  roam, 
And  through  space  our  vision  may  fly, 

Yet  no  pleasure  is  like  that  at  home 
When  we  gaze  on  a  God-painted  sky. 

When  we  think  of  the  forces  displayed 
To  prepare  for  a  cloud-scene  at  even, 

Of  the  elements  deftly  arrayed 

That  a  gorgeous  effect  may  be  given, 


136  OUR  PROFESSION 

Of  the  mists  and  the  winds  and  the  light, 
Of  the  blendings  that  art  cannot  teach, 

Of  the  mysteries  hidden  from  sight 

That  our  knowledge  would  gladly  reach, 

Of  the  order,  the  purpose,  design, 
In  the  pictures  that  hang  in  the  sky, 

We  know  that  the  hand  is  divine 
That  arranged  all  their  brilliancy, 

Then  our  faith  lifts  the  curtain  that  hides 
The  Spirit  that  ordered  the  plan, 

And  assures  us  He  ever  abides 
To  encourage  and  elevate  man. 

At  sunset  my  spirit  shall  sing 

Of  the  beauties  the  elements  yield, 

Let  my  heart  then  its  off 'ring  bring 
To  the  Artist  of  sky  and  of  field. 

When  my  soul  from  its  dwelling  of  clay, 
Shall  escape  to  that  unknown  sphere, 

May  it  be  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
When  the  glories  of  sunset  appear. 

Soothingly,  sweetly  comes  unto  me 
The  thought  that  my  soul  may  rest, 

In  a  land  whose  glory  shall  be 

Like  cloud-scenes  that  glow  in  the  west. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  137 


SELFISHNESS. 

\\7HO  lives  for  self  alone  should  be 

Placed  in  some  lonely,  hollow  tree, 
And  left  to  toad  and  bat  and  owl — 
To  creatures  man  considers  foul — 
Where  he  shall  be  perpetual  prey 
For  frightful  ogres  night  and  day. 

A  narrow  soul  that  lives  for  self, 

Should  stand  on  some  old  musty  shelf, 

Where  spiders,  rats,  and  vermin  throng, 

And  listen  only  to  the  song 

Of  filing  saw  and  creaky  mill, 

And  owlet's  hoot  and  whip-poor-will. 

Who  lives  for  self  is  not  afraid 
Of  meanest  thing  God  ever  made, 
For  he  himself  is  that  same  thing; 
Though  peasant,  plebian,  or  king, 
He  thwarts  the  purpose  of  God's  plan, 
He  lacks  the  impulse  of  a  man. 

No  soul  enwrapped  within  itself, 
Or  dwarfed  by  pride,  or  love  of  pelf, 
Can  serve  its  Maker  or  mankind 
As  nobly  as  was  erst  designed 
By  the  Great  Architect  above, 
Whose  being  is  Unselfish  Love. 


138  OUR  PROFESSION 


RETROSPECTION. 

[   sit  when  the  shadows  are  stealing 

The  light  of  departing  day, 
And  think  of  the  scenes  and  pleasures 
I  enjoyed  in  my  childhood's  play. 

I  can  picture  them  all  so  plainly, 
They  seemed  not  a  day  gone  by, 

I  recall  the  fields  and  garden, 
The  lake  and  the  clear  blue  sky. 

I  can  see  the  bright  water  flowing 
At  the  foot  of  the  sloping  hill, 

The  dam  that  impeded  its  progress, 
The  toy-wheel  of  water-mill. 

I  can  trace  every  line  and  feature 
Of  trees  and  the  shadows  they  cast, 

The  lanes,  the  rocks,  and  orchards, 
That  on  journey  to  school  were  past. 

I  can  close  my  eyes  for  an  instant 
And  draw  a  scene  to  my  mind, 

That  seemes  like  a  photo-engraving, 
As  true,  as  complete,  as  defined. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  139 

Time's  flight  lias  not  dim'd  or  shaded 
One  outline  the  scenes  gave  then, 

Though  the  years  that  have  intervened, 
Are  nearly  two  score  and  ten. 

There's  a  central,  attractive  figure, 

With  heart  unselfish  and  warm, 
That  always  appears  in  the  picture — 

'Tis  my  mother's  benignant  form. 

I  can  see  her  in  all  the  beauty 

And  glow  of  a  mother's  pride, 
As  she  patiently  watched  and  labored 

For  her  children  at  her  side. 

How  sweet  to  my  soul  is  the  power 
To  so  clearly  these  scenes  portray; 

I  pray  that  to  life's  latest  hour 
This  bliss  be  not  taken  away. 


140  OUR  PROFESSION 


ALONE. 

"And  the  Lord  God  said,  It  is  not  good  that  the  man  should 
be  alone;  I  will  make  him  a  help  meet  for  him." — Gen.   2,18, 

A  LONE !  God  saw  His  creature  man, 
"^     Deprived  of  great  felicity, 
And  changed  the  order  of  His  plan 

That  earth  in  harmony  might  be 
With  all  the  products  of  the  spheres, 

Which  move  in  such  perfect  accord, 
That  through  aeons  of  passing  years 

They  but  proclaim  a  perfect  Lord. 

The  earth  was  fair  and  fresh  and  young, 

The  stars  hung  in  a  cloudless  sky, 
Sweet  perfumes  on  the  air  were  flung 

From  every  breeze  went  laughing  by; 
The  brook  and  bird  in  wanton  glee, 

Attuned  their  notes  in  such  refrain 
That  earth  was  full  of  minstrelsy, 

And  heaven  re-echoed  it  again. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  141 

God's  image,  man,  heard  not  the  strain, 

No  beauty  charmed  his  listless  eye, 
Earth  spread  her  treasures  but  in  vain, 

In  vain  shone  the  bejeweled  sky; 
Earth  gave  no  food  for  hungry  heart, 

No  solace-cup  from  which  to  sip, 
Defective  seemed  Nature  and  Art, 

To  soul  robbed  of  companionship. 

A  "  help  meet "  then  to  man  was  given , 

To  soothe  and  cheer  his  lonely  way; 
Eve  was  an  afterthought  of  Heaven 

That  crowned  the  last  creation-day. 
Create  anew,  Almighty  Power, 

A  "  help  meet "  for  the  desolate, 
Let  no  wild  sophistry  devour 

The  solace  Thou  didst  last  create. 


142  OUR  PROFESSION 


LOVE. 

[Written  after  reading  Shakespeare's  sonnet  commencing, 
"  Love  is  not  Love  which  alters  when  it  alterations  finds."] 

[   OVE  is  a  sort  of  cannibal 
And  lives  upon  its  kind, 
It  dares  all  dangers,  fears  no  foes 

And  to  the  world  is  blind, 
While  faithful  heart  unswerving  beats, 

Or  pines  in  forced  retreat ; 
It  deems  all  tortures  fate  may  send 

Are  perfumed  with  the  sweet 
Aroma  of  implicit  faith, 

Born  of  a  kindred  soul 
That  to  the  outer  things  of  life 

Spurns  puny  hate's  control. 

Love,  undeceived,  is  perfect  bliss 

When  trust  reciprocates 
The  purest,  sweetest  touch  that  Heaven 

Within  the  soul  creates; 
But  fierce  Vesuvius  cannot  burn 

With  such  destructive  flame, 
As  fires  Love's  victim  of  deceit 

Stung  by  the  taunts  that  claim 
No  truthful  fountain  as  their  source, 

No  mild- voiced  Justice  to  allay 
The  cauldron  of  defenseless  fraud 

Distilled  through  treachery. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  143 

Love  that  dissembles  is  not  love, 

But  a  subtle  treachery, — 
A  siren  with  a  charming  voice 

That  sounds  o'er  a  mirror  sea, — 
A  beacon  light  set  to  allure 

From  a  harbor  safe  and  calm, — 
A  soothing  drug  whose  deadly  power 

Yields  to  no  proffered  balm, — 
A  smiling  face  with  winsome  glow 

But  poisonous,  blasting  breath, 
That  breathes  upon  its  victim,  draughts 

Of  sorrow,  tears,  and  death. 

Love  that  would  gain  a  mastery 

To  wield  for  pelf  or  power, 
Is  not  a  love  born  clean  and  pure 

O'er  which  no, evils  lower, 
But  like  a  miasmatic  clime 

That  yields  delicious  fruit, 
It  hides  the  venom  it  distills, 

And  seeks  its  sole  repute 
In  outward  show  and  pageantry, 

Wherein  are  deep  concealed 
The  poisoned  arrows  plumed  for  death, 
It  would  not  have  revealed. 

Unselfish  love  is  but  a  spark 

Of  God's  own  spirit  dropped  from  Heaven, 
The  richest  boon,  the  sweetest  joy, 

That  unto  mortals  God  hath  given ; 


144  OUR  PROFESSION 

Within  itself  it  hath  a  power 
To  lift  the  soul  on  joyous  wings, 

Attune  the  heart  to  harmonies, 

...    And  softly  touch  the  tensioned  strings 

That  vibrate  in  such  unison 

With  other  strings  so  like  its  own, 

That  not  a  discord  may  be  heard 
In  cadence,  blend,  or  tone. 


As  a  cricket  sang  his  song  to  me 

On  a  late  September  eve, 
The  tone  had  a  sadness  in  it, 

That  over  my  spirit  .did  weave 
A  spell  of  gloom,  at  the  requiem 

He  sang  in  his  solitude, 
For  the  dying  year,  th'  fading  leaf, 

And  flowers  by  frost  subdued. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  145 


LIES. 

IF  aught  on  earth  my  soul  can  fire, 

Tis  the  deception  of  a  liar 
Who  with  soft  smoothness  of  the  tongue, 
Has  promises  and  pledges  strung 
To  suit  all  needs  that  come  to  hand, 
To  serve  the  purpose  Satan  planned. 

Satan  himself,  I  think,  would  shun 
The  presence  of  that  artful  one, 
Who  violates  truth's  sacred  laws, 
Regardless  of  the  end  or  cause, 
But  deems  it  strategy  to  live 
For  the  sole  purpose  to  deceive. 

If  hell  has  any  corner  where 

Vile  culprits  may  be  doomed  to  share 

The  merits  they  richly  deserve, 

It  should  be  held  in  strict  reserve 

For  them  whose  flattery  and  art 

Are  used  to  kill  a  trusting  heart. 

Let  me  abhor,  loathe,  and  despise 

The  author  of  those  fiendish  lies, 

Who  would  for  pleasure,  greed,  or  power, 

The  confidence  of  youth  devour, 

And  blight  the  soul  with  foul  distrust, 

Or  trample  honor  in  the  dust. 


146  OUE  PKOFESSION 

No  sting  of  pain  can  e'er  atone, 

No  purging  fire  was  ever  known 

For  cleansing  of  a  heart  defiled 

By  falsehood;  though  it  may  be  styled 

In  diction,  affability, 

It  poisons  like  the  upas  tree. 

Beware  the  tongue  that  will  deceive, 
At  last  'twill  cause  your  soul  to  grieve 
Though  smooth  its  accents  now  may  be, 
Its  motive  power  is  treachery, 
Its  fruits  are  laden  with  disease, 
Although  its  tones  may  often  please. 

Dissimulation's  oily  tongue 
Will  grace  Simplicity,  among 
Her  unsuspecting,  trustful  throng, 
That  he  may  do  her  greater  wrong, 
And  covertly  defile  the  pure, 
Some  envied  purpose  to  secure. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  147 

HEARTSTRINGS. 

T^HE  tiny  trembling  tendons 

That  twine  about  the  heart, 
Are  chords  that  yield  a  music 
Unknown  to  vocal  art. 

Though  soft  the  notes  are  sounded, 

Each  vibration  tells  a  tale 
Of  the  mellow,  winsome  sunshine, 

Or  of  fierce,  destructive  gale. 

Though  the  strings  be  few  injjnumber. 

They  have  compass  far  beyond 
The  myriad  chords  around  them, 

That  are  less  delicately  tuned. 

List  we  softly  to  the  music 

As  its  volumes  gently  roll, 
Varied  in  their  intonation 

By  the  tension  of  the  soul. 

Ecstatic  measures  fill  us 

With  a  rapture  so  profound, 
That  we  fancy  heaven's  portals 

With  such  harmonies  abound. 

Each  note  is  rich  in  meaning, 

Each  tone  is  full  and  clear 
To  the  charming  sweet  delusion 

Of  imagination's  ear. 


148  OUR  PROFESSION 

If  you  would  hear  this  music 
And  be  charmed  by  its  tone, 

Attune  your  heart  to  harmony, 
For  the  music  is  its  own. 

No  lessons  conned  in  schooldays, 
No  studied  forms  of  art, 

Can  profit  us  so  greatly 

As  communion  with  our  heart. 

It  will  sing  us  songs  of  rapture, 
Though  silent  each  may  be; 

It  will  help  to  solve  the  questions 
Of  life's  great  mystery. 

If  one  would  hear  sweet  harmony 
He  carefully  must  live; 

For  these  songs  will  be  an  echo 
Of  the  keynote  he  shall  give. 

If  heartstrings  be  but  tuned  aright 
Sweet  melodies  we  hear; 

If  strung  with  envy  and  deceit, 
The  tone  is  doleful,  drear. 

Then  let  us  tune  our  hearts  with  joy, 
And  touch  the  strings  with  glee, 

For  honor,  truth,  and  purity, 
Will  bring  soul-ecstasy. 


OTHER  POEMS.  149 


WHO   KNOWS? 

T  T  matters  not  what  be  our  lot 
Upon  this  mundane  sphere, 
In  spite  of  fears  and  burning  tears 

While  we  shall  linger  hear, 
We  must  depend  on  foe  or  friend 

For  many  things  we  need 
To  give  the  soul  that  full  control 

Which  makes  it  strong  indeed. 

For  noble  end,  make  him  a  friend 

Who  can  reciprocate, 
A  kindly  act,  not  to  it  tacked 

The  proof  of  reprobate. 
God  only  knows  whom  we  may  choose 

And  safely  trust  as  brother, 
The  seeming  saint  may  have  a  taint 

That  proves  him  quite  another. 

In  human  dust  we  scarcely  trust 

The  egotistic  pious, 
Who  thinks  that  he  from  sin  is  free — 

Not  subject  to  its  bias  ; 
A  holy  man  does  all  he  can 

For  God  and  human  kind; 
He  meekly  lives,  but  counsel  gives 

In  language  pure,  refined. 


150  OUR  PROFESSION 


TWILIGHT  HOUR, 

[Set  to  Music  by  COM.  T.  C.  ADAMS.] 

F  love  to  spend  the  twilight  hour 

When  stars  their  radiance  o'er  nie  cast, 
With  that  benign  mysterious  power 

Which  calls  up  mem'ries  of  the  past, 
And  brings  anew  the  scenes  of  yore, 

Like  sacred  perfume  from  some  shrine 
Whose  hallowed  influence  ever  more 
Proves  life  and  love  of  birth  divine. 

Sweet  twilight  hour!  sweet  twilight  hour! 
How  blissful  is  thy  magic  power, 
At  thy  return  new  strength  is  given 
To  lead  me  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 

I  love  at  such  an  hour  as  this 

To  hold  sweet  converse  with  my  soul, 
Anticipate  a  promised  bliss, 

Or  memory's  charmed  page  unroll; 
To  feel  life's  not  alone  for  me, 

But  has  some  aim,  some  end,  some  plan, 
Which  to  the  soul  gives  dignity, 

And  leads  toward  heaven  a  fellow  man. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  151 

I  love  at  twilight  hour  to  see 

The  lamps  of  heaven  in  glory  shine 
With  beacon-light  effulgency, 

To  guide  me  to  that  land  divine, 
Where  dwell  the  loved  of  former  years, 

And  where  no  sorrow  e'er  may  come, 
Where  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears, 

And  I  shall  find  abiding  home. 

Oh,  twilight  hour,  how  sweet  thou  art ! 

Thy  coming  oft  relieves  iny  pain, 
Thy  soft  communings  with  my  heart 

Prepare  me  for  life's  toils  again; 
Drive  thou  away  my  sordid  thought, 

And  give  my  soul  augmented  power; 
Teach  me  to  use  thee  as  I  ought, 

Thou  holy,  blessed  twilight  hour. 


Let  us  not  lose  the  heritage 

Our  fathers  did  bequeath 
To  sons  whose  grasp  should  hold  secure 

The  prize,  till  hour  of  death 
Shall  still  the  heart,  and  loose  the  nerve 

Whose  tension  holds  secure 
The  magic  love  of  Liberty 

And  Justice,  strong  and  pure. 


152  OUE  PKOFESSION 


THE   HAIE. 

O  INGE  the  days  of  primal  story 

Of  Eden's  happy  pair, 
A  woman's  greatest  glory 

Is  her  glossy  flowing  hair; 
It  is  a  safe  criterion 

By  which  to  judge  her  life, 
To  ascertain,  if  duly  won, 

She'd  prove  a  worthy  wife. 

Its  color  and  arrangement, 

Its  sunshine  and  its  storm 
Prefigure  an  estrangement, 

Or  friendship  true  and  warm. 
We  dearly  love  the  sunshine 

Of  locks  with  golden  hue, 
That  bear  this  blessed  combine — 

Kind,  tender,  warm,  and  true. 

"We  read  volumes  of  character 

In  every  lock  of  hair; 
The  life,  the  mind,  the  heart's  prefer 

Are  plainly  written  there; 
No  printed  index  could  portray 

The  soul's  environment, 
So  plainly  and  so  perfectly 

As  capillary  bent. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  153 


Beware  the  frouzy,  unkempt  lock 

That  speaks  of  negligence ; 
Regard  causmetic's  fancy  stock 

Of  little  consequence; 
Trust  only  such  as  speak  of  taste 

Born  of  a  cultured  mind, 
Whose  purposes  are  pure  and  chaste 

Whose  structure,  soft,  refined. 


A  thoughtful  mind  may  lessons  draw 
From  faded  leaf  or  broken  straw; 
May  beauty  see  in  some  lone  star 
That  cheers  the  storm-tossed  mariner; 
May  note  in  solitude  some  sound 
Wherein  soft  harmonies  abound; 
May  hear  no  voice  from  human  lip; 
Yet  dwell  in  blest  companionship. 


154  OUR  PROFESSION 


LIBERTY. 

T  NTO  the  port  where  Liberty  stands 

Inviting  the  nations  to  woo  her, 
Malefactors  swarm  from  foreign  lands, 
Whose  tenets  would  surely  undo  her. 

Criminals,  paupers,  the  ostracised 

From  all  countries  beyond  the  great  sea, 

Flock  into  the  land  our  fathers  prized, 

And  baptized  "The  Sweet  Land  of  the  Free.' 

They  come  not  to  build  a  hearth  and  home, 
Or  to  clear  and  improve  our  rich  soil, 

But  prowl  like  wolves  that  in  forest  roam, 
And  prey  on  fruits  of  our  honest  toil. 

Long  were  our  shores  a  refuge  secure, 
For  the  honest,  the  brave,  and  the  true ; 

With  valor  and  pride,  men  would  endure 
The  trials  that  for  State  might  accrue. 

Men  there  are  yet,  who  come  to  our  shore, 
In  honor  high,  of  great  moral  powers, 

Whose  hands  give  strength  to  homes  we  adore, 
And  whose  hearts  are  as  loyal  as  ours. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  155 

For  these  there  is  room  and  welcome,  too, 
For  there's  land  quite  enough  and  to  spare, 

But  we  pray  that  all  the  vicious  crew 
To  their  homes  o'er  the  sea  may  repair. 

Shall  we  quarantine  disease  and  death, 
Whose  subtle  infections  float  in  the  air, 

And  grant  free  power  to  the  pois'nous  breath 
That  would  strangle  our  Liberty  fair  ? 

Sons  of  the  Nation,  arise  in  might ! 

And  then  swear  by  the  God  we  adore, 
This  vicious  crowd  shall  be  put  to  flight, 

And  forever  debarred  from  our  shore. 

Freedom  and  Liberty  need  our  care, 

If  from  wounds  we  would  e'er  keep  them  free, 

For  a  frenzied  brain  would  even  dare 
To  destroy  through  base  treachery. 

Long  live  the  land  unto  freedom  given, 

And  forever  may  Liberty  stand, 
With  beacon  flame  from  the  throne  of  heaven, 

And  a  symbol  of  Light  in  her  hand. 

When  stars  shall  fade  from  the  dome  of  heaven, 
And  sun  shall  refuse  his  golden  light; 

When  noon  of  Time  shall  be  changed  to  even, 
And  earth  shall  be  lost  to  human  sight; 


156  OUR  PROFESSION 

When  crash  of  worlds  and  revolving  spheres 

Shall  lose  in  chaos,  identity; 
And  Time  shall  be  measured  not  by  years, 

But  on  shall  roll  through  eternity; 

Then  Liberty's  form  may  sink  in  dust; 

But  loyal  sons  shall  transported  be 
From  the  mundane  scenes  of  moth  and  rust, 

To  the  perfect  home  of  Liberty. 

I  ween  that  when  such  an  hour  as  this. 

Shall  marshal  friends  who  have  fought  and  died 

For  the  sacred  cause  of  earthly  bliss, 
And  Freedom's  cause  have  so  magnified, 

There  shall  be  a  special  crown  for  him 
Who  has  stood  undaunted  in  the  fight; 

But  the  brightest  star  in  the  diadem 

Is  steadfast  love  for  the  Truth  and  Right. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  157 


"LO,"   THE  DEPAETED. 

JTHE  Bison  strong  and  the  Indian  wild 

Have  departed  from  our  plains; 
The  land  where  they  lived  has  been  defiled 
By  man's  greed  for  worldly  gains. 

The  human  tide  that  on  them  has  rolled 

In  merciless  energy, 
In  search  of  that  dazzling  monarch  Gold, 

Swept  on  like  a  mighty  sea, 

Till  their  prostrate  forms,  mingled  with  clay, 

Enrich  the  soil  once  their  own; 
And  naught  but  waters  shrink  in  dismay, 

And  winds  in  wild  sorrow  moan. 

O,  beautiful  lakes  and  silver  streams, 
May  your  names  their  mem'ry  keep; 

Dear  mountains,  wake  from  your  silent  dreams, 
When  your  sides  so  wild  and  steep, 

Shall  hear  your  names  in  the  Indian  tongue; 

And  echoes,  reverberate 
The  mellow  tones  of  the  songs  once  sung, 

At  the  hunter's  evening  fete. 


158  OUR  PROFESSION 


DKIFTING  AWAY. 

I—TOW  softly,  how  still,  are  we  drifting  away, 

On  the  wide  Sea  of  Life  as  it  beckons  us  on, 
Though  the  sunshine  allure  us  'tis  but  for  a  day, 
Then  darkness  conies  o'er  us  and  hopes  are  all  gone. 

We  are  drifting  away  in  a  bark  that  is  frail, 

On  a  sea  sometimes  rough  and  whose  waves  often  moan, 

Yet  when  all  is  peaceful  we  think  not  of  gale, 

But  are  drifting  away  in  our  bark  all  alone. 

So  softly  we  float  on  a  smooth  flowing  sea, 
That  our  helm  and  our  anchors  are  cast  to  the  shore,. 
We  think  them  a  burden  and  wish  to  be  free, 
From  every  encumbrance  that  can  serve  us  no  more, 

We  are  drifting  away  with  our  hopes  and  our  fears, 
To  an  ocean  of  life  unknown  to  us  now; 
We  see  a  bright  vision — though  veiled  by  our  tears, 
It  appears  like  refulgence  to  lighten  the  brow. 

Too  slowly  our  bark  seems  to  drift  toward  the  prize, 
We  in  ecstasy  wish  it  to  speed  faster  on; 
But  while  we  are  wishing,  a  mist  dims  our  eyes, 
And  lo !  that  bright  vision  has  vanished  and  gone. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  159 

A  gloom  of  thick  darkness  now  spreads  like  a  pall, 
The  winds  of  the  tempest  arise  in  their  force, 
And  amid  their  wild  shriekings  for  succor  we  call 
On  Him  who  reigns  o'er  us,  to  mark  out  our  course. 

We  plead  for  protection  from  ruin  and  pain, 

Repiningly  think  of  our  anchor  and  helm, 

And  could  we  secure  those  lost  prizes  again, 

No  tempest  could  shake  us,  no  wave  could  o'erwhelm. 

But  swiftly  we're  drifting,  we  cannot  tell  where, 
The  current  moves  onward  regardless  of  gloom, 
We  raise  our  weak  voices  and  utter  a  prayer 
That  God  in  His  mercy  is  drifting  us  home. 


The  silver  stream  by  the  farmhouse  door 

Flows  on  and  on  forever, 
But  the  feet  that  trod  its  oaken  floor 

Have  crossed  the  mystic  river, 
And  no  wind  kissed  by  a  vernal  sun 

Can  return  them  e'er  again; 
Their  earthly  pilgrimage  is  done, 

They  dwell  in  a  new  domain. 


160  OUR  PROFESSION 


KINDRED   SPIRITS. 

H,  give  me  some  heart  of  a  kindred  spirit 
That  smiles  when  I  smile,  or  that  weeps  when  I  weep, 
Whose  solace  is  greater  by  far  to  inherit  4 

Than  the  wealth  of  the  mines  or  the  gems  of  the  deep. 

Some  heart  that  will  echo  response  to  my  feeling, 
That  thrills  with  delight  when  I  speak  of  my  joy; 
That  sorrows  with  sorrow  too  deep  for  concealing, 
When  cankering  griefs  make  my  own  heart's  alloy. 

Some  heart  that  appreciates  each  little  kindness, 
That  knows  all  my  feelings,  tho'  oft  unexpressed, 
That  sees  not  my  faults  with  a  passionate  blindness, 
But  clings  to  my  soul  when  'tis  sorely  distressed. 

Some  heart  whose  affection  can  never  be  blighted, 
That  beats  all  in  concert  with  that  of  my  own, 
That  revels  in  pleasures  with  which  I'm  delighted, 
And  grieves  at  the  sorrows  which  cause  me  to  moan. 

Some  heart  that  can  never  be  swerved  from  its  mooring, 
Though  tempests  may  thunder  and  billows  may  roar, 
That  espouses  my  fate  in  spite  of  such  roaring, 
And  when  trials  are  sorest  will  trust  even  more. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  161 

My  heart  would  exult  to  find  such  a  treasure, 
And  return  ev'ry  throb  in  fidelity's  pride, 
Would  suffer  if  need  be,  and  call  it  but  pleasure 
To  live  or  to  die  for  a  heart  so  allied. 

No  frown  of  the  world  could  e'er  cause  me  to  tremble 
While  trusting  my  all  in  a  heart  such  as  this, 
Too  fond  to  deceive  me ;  too  true  to  dissemble — 
'Twere  a  foretaste  of  Heaven,  the  acme  of  bliss. 

Can  it  be,  can  it  be,  the  world  is  so  varied, 
Human  hearts  never  beat  on  chords  that  are  even! 
Is  versatile  man  so  odd,  or  so  seared 
That  perfect  accord  is  known  but  in  Heaven ! 

My  heart  shall  rejoice  that  some  kindred  vibrations 
Soothe  the  devious  marge  of  the  pathway  of  fate, 
And  gathering  strength  through  many  privations 
Shall  learn  in  contentment  to  patiently  wait. 


To  sit  an  hour  on  lichened  stone, 

Or  mould'ring  log  by  moss  o'ergrown, 

And  use  our  ears  and  eyes, 
Will  teach  us  the  effect  and  cause 
Of  many  of  great  Nature's  laws 

That  now  are  mysteries. 


162  OUR  PROFESSION 


SCHOOL   DAYS. 

AN  we  e'er  forget  our  boyhood, 

And  the  days  we  spent  at  school, 
With  the  jolly  youths  and  maidens 

Who  with  pencil  for  a  tool, 
Squared  the  area  of  a  circle, 
And  minutely  did  compute 
The  interest  and  discount 
On  a  promissory  note  ? 

As  we  worked  those  "grazing"  questions, 

We  could  see  the  cattle  eat; 
See  the  grass  grow  up  by  inches 

Beneath  their  cloven  feet; 
We  could  surely  hear  a  lowing 

That  distinctly  called  our  names> 
Inviting  us  to  pastures 

To  enjoy  our  childish  games. 

If  the  day  were  warm  and  pleasant, 

The  calling  seemed  more  clear 
Than  when  chilly  winds  were  sighing, 

And  the  clouds  were  dark  and  drear; 
It  was  no  imagination, 

For  a  schoolboy's  mind  is  real, 
Though  we  heard  that  calling  often 

We  answered  it  with  zeal. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  163 

Then  we  worked  like  real  bankers 

And  claimed  "three  days  of  grace;" 
Then  we  figured  "  hare  and  greyhound" 

In  their  leaping,  jaunty  lace; 
We  desired  an  illustration 

Of  the  problems  to  be  solved, 
As  no  concrete  computation 

From  the  abstract  e'er  evolved. 

We  solved  the  size  of  fishes, 

When  some  fraction  and  a  part 
Were  all  the  given  bases 

To  test  our  "number"  art, 
But  we  never  were  contented 

With  the  fishes  in  the  book, 
So  we  strolled  off  to  the  lakeside, 

Or  down  the  purling  brook. 

Then  we  had  some  given  acres 

In  the  form  of  perfect  square, 
And  a  fence  around  its  border 

With  a  circle  must  compare, 
Which  would  cost  the  greater  money 

To  fence  it  in  with  rails, 
Or  build  with  posts  and  stringers, 

Sawed  lumber,  and  cut  nails. 

Then  we  worked  upon  that  problem 
Which  has  never  yet  been  solved, 

How  to  live  and  be  contented 
In  the  scenes  life  has  evolved, 


164  OUE  PROFESSION 

Though  in  every  operation 

Much  must  be  inferred, 
We  will  find  this  root's  extraction 

Will  often  prove  a  surd. 

As  life's  day  of  sunshine  lingers, 

Ere  the  darkness  draws  apace, 
"Tis  a  blessed  satisfaction 

To  look  backward  o'er  the  race, 
And  feel  that  in  the  running, 

Our  best  was  ever  done, 
And  know  that  at  the  ending, 

Some  trophy  must  be  won. 

Though  the  eye  may  lose  its  clearness 

And  the  touch  may  lose  its  thrill, 
Though  the  senses  fail  to  gather 

All  the  promptings  of  the  will, 
May  the  mind  retain  its  power 

To  recall  the  days  of  yore, 
Till  the  spirit  casts  its  anchor 

On  that  far-off  unseen  shore. 

V 

When  on  that  shore  safe  landed, 

It  seems  to  be  quite  plain 
That  the  greatest  satisfaction 

Will  be  to  think  of  youth  again; 
There  must  be  a  great  transition 

From  this  mundane  sphere  below, 
If  the  thoughts  of  early  boyhood 

May  not  set  all  heaven  aglow. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  165 


PERHAPS. 

PERHAPS  had  I  chosen  some  other  profession 

Than  that  of  moulding  the  human  mind, 
I  might  have  secured  a  greater  possession 
Of  lucre  and  treasures  and  powers  combined, 

Than  all  I  may  now  of  these  truly  own; 
But  I  have  in  my  casket  some  jewels  I  treasure 
Far  more  than  all  stocks  and  houses  and  lands, 
In  gold  and  silver  their  worth  has  no  measure, 
For  none  may  compute  warm  hearts  and  true  hands, 

When  the  shadows  of  years  are  over  us  thrown. 


There  are  two  kinds  of  discontent — 

Malignant,  and  progressive, — 
The  latter  is  the  proper  sort, 

Of  it,  be  quite  possessive. 
The  former,  born  of  parentage 

"Whose  motive  powers  are  evil, 
Serves  but  one  purpose  here  below — 

To  aid  its  father — Devil. 


166  OUR  PROFESSION 


IMPORTANT   MOMENTS. 

THERE  are  times  when  the  fate  of  nations 

May  hang  on  a  moment's  call; 
When  spheres  in  their  mute  rotations 

May  swing  on  a  hinge  so  small, 
That  the  breath  of  a  spirit's  pinion 
Might  unpoise  a  balanced  world, 
And  lost  to  law's  dominion 

Through  endless  space  be  hurled. 

There  are  times  when  the  herdsman's  calling- 
May  vibrate  thro'  alpine  ranch 

Till  the  pendent  drop,  by  its  falling, 
Sweeps  down  in  an  avalanche, 

Till  the  mountain  trembles  and  totters 
'Neath  the  mighty  force  of  snow, 

And  the  lives  and  homes  of  the  cotters 
Are  lost  in  the  vale  below. 

There  are  times  when  the  mind's  inaction 

Has  robbed  the  soul  of  power, 
When  moments  of  deep  reflection 

Arrive  at  so  late  an  hour 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  167 

That  they  lose  the  force  of  their  mission 

In  the  laggard  way  they  come, 
And  like  withered  buds  of  fruition, 

Are  lifeless,  powerless,  dumb. 

There  are  words  that  have  been  spoken 

That  have  echoed  on  thro'  years; 
Though  the  vessel  has  been  broken 

That  voiced  them  to  our  ears, 
Yet  they  come  with  increased  ardor 

As  the  years  are  passing  by, 
Since  the  soul  stood  on  the  border 

Of  vast  eternity. 

There  are  scenes  that  ever  mirror 

Their  forms  in  thought  divine, 
That  with  lapse  of  time  grow  dearer 

Till  we  hold  them  as  some  shrine, 
Wherein  are  kept  the  treasures 

Of  Faith  and  Trust  and  Love — 
A  trio  fraught  with  pleasures 

Drawn  from  the  realms  above. 

There  are  hours  upon  whose  decision 

The  fate  of  a  soul  may  be; 
Though  clouds  may  obscure  the  vision 

And  we  pray  for  a  light  to  see 
The  way  that  shall  lead  to  heaven, 

And  keep  our  pathway  bright, 
We  can  use  but  the  knowledge  given 

And  walk  in  our  purest  light. 


168  OUR  PROFESSION 

Let  us  scan  each  hour's  requisition 

And  answer  every  demand, 
Knowing  that  want  of  decision 

Is  a  foe  we  cannot  withstand; 
If  we  shrink  from  performing  our  duty, 

Or  tardily  fashion  our  thought, 
Life  loses  its  charm  and  its  beauty 

And  existence  profits  us  naught. 


"We  know  that  like  all  human 

Our  work  is  imperfect  at  best, 
And  will  bristle  with  imperfections 

Till  our  hands  shall  be  at  rest; 
But  to  justify  our  blunders 

Or  pass  them  lightly  o'er, 
Is  the  fatal  way  of  inviting 

A  thousand  errors  more. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  169 


WHO  SHALL  JUDGE? 

know  not  all  that  we  have  done, 
Nor  may  we  ever  know; 
No  field  was  ever  lost  or  won, 

Until  the  final  blow 
Has  registered  itself  in  Heaven, 

And  every  impulse  known, 
That  tells  a  reason  why  'twas  given, 
To  Him  upon  the  Throne. 

Then  let  us  boast  not  of  our  deeds, 

Nor  let  our  true  hearts  fail, 
Because  we  think  some  plan  succeeds 

While  others  ne'er  prevail; 
For  he  who  works  as  best  he  can 

With  lofty,  pure  intent, 
Will  not  be  judged  by  puny  man, 

But  God  Omnipotent. 


This  earth  is  a  place  of  probation, 
A  school  wherein  man  may  secure 

A  knowledge  of  his  true  relation, 
To  the  noble,  the  true,  and  the  pure. 


170  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE  FUTURE. 

T  know  not  what  the  future 

May  have  in  store  for  me, 
I  only  know  that  God  is  God 
And  He  may  trusted  be. 

The  past  with  all  its  pleasure% 

And  all  its  sorrow  too, 
Has  been  but  a  probation 

To  prove  me  false  or  true. 

If  in  my  earthly  mission 
No  progress  has  been  made 

Toward  a  higher  spirit — 

No  growth  of  soul  displayed — 

Then  dark,  sad,  and  foreboding 

The  future  must  appear, 
The  soul  must  shrink  in  terror 

When  death's  hour  draweth  near. 

If  in  the  past  no  brother 

Has  felt  my  outstretched  hand, 

To  aid  him  on  his  pilgrimage 
Toward  a  better  land, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  171 

No  word  of  mine  brought  solace 

To  a  weary  careworn  soul; 
No  hand  of  mine  has  pointed 

To  the  Christian's  heavenly  goal; 

No  thought,  or  word,  or  action 

To|lead  to  better  life; 
No  balm  to  heal  deep  anguish; 

No  anodyne  for  strife; 

Then  shall  I  hear  the  sentence, 

"  You  did  it  not  to  me," 
Come  from  the  sacred  Teacher 

Who  taught  in  Gallilee. 

If  I  have  wronged  my  brother, 

In  action  or  in  thought; 
Have  forced  him  into  sorrow, 

Or  counted  him  as  naught, 

Have  borne  false  witness  of  him 

Or  robbed  him  of  his  peace; 
Unjustly  taken  from  him 

Or  hindered  his  increase, 

The  words  of  condemnation, 

"You  did  it  unto  me," 
Will  fill  my  soul  with  terror, 

Distress,  and  misery. 


172  OUR  PROFESSION 

My  soul  has  wronged  no  being 

Of  just  and  honest  part; 
But  on  this  sole  reliance 

It  would  not  dare  depart. 

Not  in  its  own  weak  merit, 

Not  in  itself  alone, 
But  in  the  great  redemption 

Of  Him  who  did  atone 

For  man,  and  bid  him  enter, 

The  gates  of  joy  and  rest, 
Through  faith,  and  prayer,  and  penitence, 

Upon  a  Savior's  breast. 

I  shrink  not  at  the  future 

Whatever  it  may  be, 
But  joy  in  full  assurance 

Of  faith's  expectancy. 


Let  me  pass  away  when  my  work  is  done, 
Like  a  cloudless  day  whose  setting  sun 

Leaves  a  smile  on  the  evening  sky; 
Let  this  transient  clay  when  deprived  of  breath, 
With  the  earth  yet  stay,  it  alone  knows  death, 

Myself  must  live  on  and  cannot  die. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  173 


ERE  AND  AT  MY  CALL. 

C  RE  I  lay  me  down  the  burden 

That  my  soul  on  earth  hath  worn, 
Let  me  feel  before  departing, 

That  my  tree  of  life  hath  borne 
Fruitage  that  shall  ever  onward 
Move  mankind  along  the  road, 
Toward  the  haven  of  the  blessed 
Toward  the  city  of  my  God. 

Let  some  word  that  I  have  spoken 

Or  some  act  performed  by  me, 
Sound  aloud  thro'  coming  ages 

Making  captive  souls  more  free; 
Not  to  bring  me  earthly  glory 

Nor  to  win  me  empty  fame, 
But  to  prove  the  mighty  power 

In  a  risen  Savior's  name. 

Let  my  work  be  all  completed 

When  the  summons  comes  to  go; 
Let  there  be  no  cause  for  weeping, 

Let  there  be  no  sound  of  woe, 
When  the  spirit  from  my  Father 

Beckons  me  from  duty  done, 
To  appear  at  His  tribunal, 

And  receive  the  crown  that's  won. 


174  OUR  PROFESSION 

Let  there  be  a  joyous  sunset, 

Lighting  all  the  realm  above 
With  the  radiance  and  the  glory 

Of  a  Savior's  dying  love; 
Let  my  faith  be  firm,  unshaken, 

Let  His  hand  be  clasped  in  mine, 
Let  me  cross  the  mystic  river, 

Leaning  on  His  breast  divine. 


BODING   SNOW. 

THE  sky  that  was  blue  and  sunny, 
Has  changed  to  a  granite  gray, 
The  sun  that  was  soft  and  cheery, 

Refuses  it  mellow  ray; 
On  the  distant  tree-top,  cawing, 

Sits  a  solitary  crow; 
These  and  the  shivering  children 
Betoken  the  coming  snow. 

Soon  the  flakes  will  be  falling, 

Like  down  from  an  angel's  wing, 
That  is  sent  from  the  starry  regions 

For  Nature's  covering; 
The  trees,  the  plants,  the  grasses, 

With  rev'rence  bow  their  heads, 
For  the  pure  and  fleecy  mantle 

That  God  above  them  spreads. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  175 


AN   OPEN   BOOK. 

]_J  O W  strange  are  the  stories  we  sometimes  read 

In  faces  we  meet  by  the  way, 
They  unconsciously  tell  of  motive  or  deed 
That  the  tongue  would  refuse  to  betray. 

Each  lineament  is  a  page  set  apart 

To  be  studied  and  understood 
By  the  shade  that  reflects  the  mind  and  heart, 

In  their  varied  forms  and  mood. 

The  eye  oft  reflects  the  secrets  of  soul 

That  are  occult  to  all  beside, 
And  form  of  the  mouth  defying  control 

Betrays  what  the  heart  fain  would  hide. 

The  quivering  chin  and  tear-bedewed  eye 

That  respond  to  a  kindred  word 
That  unconsciously  fell  from  a  tongue  passing  by, 

Oft  betrays  how  th'  heart  has  been  stirred. 

There  are  fountains  so  deep  in  some  human  lives 
That  from  them  no  draught  can  be  drawn, 

Save  the  perfect  mirage  the  face  ever  gives 
Of  the  soul  when  reflections  dawn. 


176  OUR  PROFESSION 

How  varied  the  pages  we  daily  read — 

Some  are  joyous  and  full  of  glee, 
While  others  may  tell  of  brave  hearts  that  bleed, 

And  then  break  in  deep  misery. 

The  facial  page  to  me  hath  a  charm 

That  no  printed  book  can  impart, 
'Tis  no  fancied  tale,  'tis  no  false  alarm, 

But  stern  truths  from  the  human  heart. 

Pencils  write  plainly  each  act,  on  the  face, 

Each  motive  indulged  is  seen  there, 
No  after  decision  can  fully  erase 

The  masks  faces  ever  must  wear. 

If  the  face  would  be  fair  and  bright  and  young, 

Wear  a  charming,  a  joyous  hue, 
To  truth  and  to  right  heart-strings  must  be  strung, 

Every  thought,  every  act  must  be  true. 

Let  the  pencil  of  truth  inscribe  on  the  face, 

Let  honor  illumine  the  eye, 
Let  generous  thoughts  and  acts  ever  grace 

The  face-page  the  world  shall  descry. 


AXD  OTHER  POEMS.  177 


SOME  CHARACTERS  I  MUCH  ADORE. 

A  N  honest  man  with  noble  mind, 

With  heart  sincere,  true,  and  refined, 
Who  lives  for  God  and  all  mankind, 

Who  cares  for  rich  and  poor, 
And  opens  wide  his  soul  to  see 
The  sweet  designs  of  Deity, 
Yet  from  all  prejudice  is  free, 
Is  character  I  much  adore. 

The  man  who  all  his  rights  will  claim, 
But  gives  another  just  the  same, 
And  shares  with  equity  the  blame 

Of  faults  done  long  before, 
Who  will  not  shrink  when  sorely  tried. 
But  firmly  by  the  truth  abide, 
E'en  when  his  own  faults  are  allied, 

Is  character  I  much  adore. 

A  man  who  will  not  plead  a  cause 
That  violates  the  nation's  laws, 
Or  seek  to  give  Justice  a  pause, 

For  gold  or  worldly  store, 
But  Pallas-like  will  e'er  defend, 
Alike  for  foe,  or  trusted  friend, 
The  rights  on  which  morals  depend, 

Is  character  I  much  adore. 


178  OUR  PROFESSION 

A  man  who  rises  by  his  worth 

And  not  through  fortune-favored  birth, 

Who  owns  himself,  though  all  the  earth 

May  bribes  around  him  pour, 
Who  wears  distinction's  jeweled  crown, 
But  not  from  trampling  others  down, 
Or  acts  that  cause  Justice  to  frown, 

Is  character  I  much  adore. 

The  teacher  who  sees  soul  and  mind 
In  pleasing  harmony  combined 
Within  the  clay  to  be  refined, 

And  scans  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
That  through  instruction,  skill,  and  love, 
It  may  expand  and  so  improve, 
To  honor  earth  and  heaven  above, 

Is  character  I  much  adore. 

The  man  of  God  who  feels  no  loss 
To  bear  the  burden  of  the  cross 
Though  waves  of  fury  round  him  toss, 

That  sometimes  hide  the  shore; 
Who  guides  alike  the  rich  and  poor 
Toward  Him  who  said,  "I  am  the  Door," 
And  bids  them  come  though  sick  and  sore, 

Is  character  I  much  adore. 

The  man  who  fills  a  humble  lot 
As  best  he  can,  and  murmurs  not 
At  what  he  has,  or  has  not  got, 
But  uses  all  his  power 


AND  OTHEE  POEMS.  179 

To  elevate  his  work  and  life, 
And  knows  no  mean  ignoble  strife, 
With  which  the  world  is  too  much  rife, 
Is  character  I  much  adore. 

A  faithful  wife  bent  low  in  prayer 
O'er  suffering  one  in  wild  despair, 
"While  tender  hands  relief  prepare 

Upon  th'  uncovered  floor 
Of  him  who  cursed  her  life  by  drink 
And  caused  her  trusting  heart  to  sink 
Upon  Despair's  cold,  cheerless  brink, 

Is  character  I  much  adore. 


Nature  has  printed  the  largest  book 

That  eye  has  ever  seen, 
And  filled  it  with  colored  pictures  fair, 

In  white  and  gray  and  green. 
She  offers  it  free  to  all  mankind — 

Noble,  generous  deed — 
But  few  there  are  in  its  pages  rare, 

Have  ever  learned  to  read. 


180  OUK  PROFESSION 


SOME  CHARACTERS   I  CAN'T  ADMIKE. 

THE  seeming  saint  with  long  drawn  face, 
Who  thinks  that  he  has  so  much  grace 
He  should  be  throned  on  highest  place 

To  which  saints  may  aspire, 
And  yet,  when  dealing  with  a  man, 
Will  use  some  vicious,  subtle  plan 
By  which  a  vantage  he  may  gain, 
Is  character  I  can't  admire. 

The  zealot  who  thinks  God  has  given 
A  delegated  power  from  heaven 
To  him,  to  see  that  men  are  driven 

To  escape  a  burning  fire, 
Yet  draws  no  souls  by  filial  love, 
But  deems  the  world  can  never  move 
By  holy  influence  from  above, 

Is  character  I  can't  admire. 

The  man  whose  prayer  is  long  and  loud, 
Whose  knee  is  bent,  whose  head  is  bowed — 
With  worldly  goods  richly  endowed 

With  all  man  can  desire, 
Yet  sees  a  ivorthy  brother  fall, 
Without  responding  to  his  call 
For  aid  to  soothe  starvation's  gall, 

Is  character  I  can't  admire. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  181 

The  teacher  who  devoid  of  heart, 
Unskilled  in  pedagogic  art, 
With  looks  and  acts  severely  tart 

Would  loathesome  tasks  require, 
Of  pupils  dulled  by  daily  grind, 
Or  stirred  by  words  unjust,  unkind, 
Which  leave  a  canker  in  the  mind, 

Is  character  I  can't  admire. 

The  mother  who  aspires  to  be 
A  beacon  light  of  charity, 
Regardless  of  the  nursery 

Whereof  she  seems  to  tire, 
Who  thinks  her  husband  needs  no  care, 
But  drives  him  wildly  toward  despair 
By  meagre  love,  and  frigid  fare, 

Is  character  I  can't  admire. 

The  husband  who  spends  days  and  nights 
In  low  resorts,  mid  brawls  and  fights, 
In  which  his  heart  greatly  delights, 

But  stops  not  to  inquire, 
If  wife  and  child  have  needed  care, 
Or  from  his  draughts  he  may  not  spare 
The  pittance  they  should  justly  share, 
Is  character  I  can't  admire, 

The  millionaire  who  doth  obtain 
His  wealth  by  brawn  and  muscle  strain 
Of  those  he  poorly  doth  maintain 
Through  scanty  meed  and  hire, 


182  OUE  PROFESSION 

Who  will  not  justly,  freely  give 
A  recompense  whereby  may  live 
In  health,  the  man  who  makes  him  thrive 
Is  character  I  can't  admire. 

The  man  who  feels  no  poignant  ruth 
At  the  dethronement  of  a  truth, 
That  to  old  age  from  tender  youth 

Has  felt  no  fervid  ire 
When  hate  and  envy  swayed  the  tongue, 
And  took  no  pride  in  checking  wrong, 
No  matter  where  it  may  belong, 

Is  character  I  can't  admire. 

The  man  who  lives  for  self  alone, 

The  man  whose  truth  and  honor  've  flown, 

The  man  who  hears  a  fellow  groan 

Or  sees  a  soul  expire, 
And  lifts  no  friendly  hand  to  aid, 
No  sympathy  of  soul  betrayed, 
No  fevered  brow  with  balm  allayed, 

Are  characters  I  can't  admire. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  183 


ON  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE. 

[   stood  upon  the  slender  link 

That  joins  two  cities  into  one, 
And  saw  from  thence  the  storm-clouds  drink 
Their  moisture  from  the  sun. 

I  watched  their  lowering,  frowning  edge, 

Girt  round  with  silver  band, 
Saw  castles  tall  and  towering  ledge 

Assume  their  forms  so  grand. 

I  saw  the  marshalled  hosts  of  heaven 

Join  for  the  mighty  fray, 
Their  ranks  by  tempest-winds  were  driven 

Along  their  dark  highway. 

High  in  the  heavens  the  giant  forms 
Of  chariots,  horsemen,  towers  stand, 

Whose  home  is  ever  'mid  the  storms — 
When  chaos  reigns,  most  grand. 

I  saw  the  fragments  of  the  cloud 

Join  with  the  nucleus  form, 
Cirrus  to  Nimbus  quickly  bowed — 

Sure  harbinger  of  storm. 


184  OUB  PROFESSION 

These  were  but  outward  signs  I  saw, 
Portending  danger,  strife,  and  fear, 

Yet  still  I  knew  by  Nature's  law, 
Beyond  the  clouds,  'twas  clear. 

In  spite  of  cloud  and  storm  and  strife, 

Of  tempests  wild,  severe, 
There's  sunshine  in  our  daily  life, 

If  one  true  heart  is  near. 

No  battle  vanquishes  the  true, 

E'en  thought  of  death  is  sweet 
To  him  whose  soul  would  e'er  subdue 

The  scorpion-sting — deceit. 

One  trusting,  true,  and  tender  heart 

Can  cure  a  thousand  ills, 
Extract  the  poison  from  the  dart 

Of  malice  e'er  it  kills. 

Oh,  marshalled  hosts  of  warring  clouds ! 

Teach  me  this  truth  to  know, 
There's  light  beyond,  though  trouble  shrouds 

The  valley  here  below. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  185 


THEIE  LIFE  IS  WHAT  THEY  MAKE  IT. 

[   ET  melancholy  mortals  grieve 
And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow, 
Their  gloomy  spirits  to  relieve, 

But  all  returns  to-morrow; 
For  all  the  while  they  court  their  grief, 

Unwilling  to  forsake  it, 
And  in  the  way  they  seek  relief, 
Their  life  is  what  they  make  it. 

They  brood  o'er  sorrow  day  by  day, 

With  dreams  they  are  affrighted, 
But  never  strive  to  cast  away 

What  most  their  spirits  blighted; 
And  if  fair  fortune  chance  to  smile 

And  give  no  cause  for  sorrow, 
They're  not  content  to  rest  awhile, 

But  off  they  go  and  borrow. 

Avoiding  all  life's  pleasant  ways 

Their  life  is  always  clouded, 
They  see  no  happy  sunny  days, 

For  all  in  gloom  is  shrouded; 
They  never  see  the  flowers  that  bloom 

As  on  Life's  road  they  ramble, 
But  in  the  darkest  paths  of  gloom 

Are  seeking  for  a  bramble. 


186  OUK  PROFESSION 

The  pleasures  of  this  life  do  not 

Depend  on  its  surrounding, 
But  if  the  heart's  trained  as  it  ought, 

Content  will  be  abounding; 
The  silent  heart's  the  seat  of  joy, 

And  by  continual  training 
Life's  trials  scarcely  will  annoy 

The  soul  where  peace  is  reigning. 

Then  tell  me  not  Fate  made  them  so, 

And  they  cannot  avoid  it, 
That  all  their  life  is  doomed  to  woe, 

And  they  have  not  alloyed  it; 
For  all  the  while  they  court  their  grief, 

Unwilling  to  forsake  it, 
And  in  the  way  they  seek  relief, 

Their  life  is  what  they  make  it. 


The  atmosphere  uiay  be  redolent 

With  fragrance  from  some  happy  soul 
Whose  unconscious  influence  has  sent 

Attractive  power,  like  magnetic  pole, 
Till  laugh  of  bright  eyes  is  contagious, 

Infectious,  the  mirth  of  a  smile, 
And  the  ominous  brow  umbrageous, 

Casts  aside  its  lowerings  vile. 


AND  OTHEE  POEMS.  187 


THE   LONE   BIRD. 

A  solitary  bird  was  seen  by  the  writer,  making  its  toilsome 
flight  against  a  strong  storm-wind.  The  peculiar  undulating 
flight,  the  gathering  darkness  of  the  night,  and  the  portentous 
indications  of  storm  suggested  this  : 

\A7HITHER  away  on  such  winged  undulations, 

Breasting  the  winds  and  the  tempests  wild  glee, 
Lifting  your  form  in  graceful  vibrations 
As  onward  you  move  like  a  billowy  sea  ? 

Alone,  all  alone,  on  wing  wide  extended, 

Nerved  for  the  tempest  that  sounds  not  afar, 

Night  her  dark  mantle  o'er  earth  has  suspended, 

Thro'  which  may  not  shine  e'en  the  light  of  one  star. 

Stop,  lonely  wanderer,  and  tell  me  why  mateless, 

Tell  me  the  story  of  your  solitude; 
God,  e'en  a  bird  has  not  left  so  fateless 

But  somewhere  there  lives  a  companion  for  you. 

Tell  me  if  death  has  robbed  you  of  treasures 
That  sweetened  the  tone  of  your  vesper  song; 

Tell  me  if  fears  have  destroyed  all  the  pleasures 
Which  justice  and  right  say  to  you  should  belong. 


188  OUR  PROFESSION 

Tell  me,  yes,  tell  me,  and  tell  me  most  truly, 
Is  there  just  cause  why  your  flight  is  alone  ? 

Is  there  some  stain  whereby  you  are  duly 

Debarred  from  the  pleasures  that  should  be  your  own? 

Still  but  your  wing  and  confide  me  the  story, 
Chant  it  to  me  in  a  short  plaintive  song; 

Perhaps  it  may  speak  of  a  sweet  transient  glory 
That  faded  and  died  'mid  disaster  and  Wrong. 

Perhaps  I  may  speak  some  word  that  has  healing 
For  solitude's  wounds,  e'en  sweet  tho'  they  be, 

For  sorrows  augment  by  sacied  concealing, 
And  steal  from  the  heart  ev'ry  wish  to  be  free. 

Dear  blessed  bird !  you  have  stopped  at  my  pleading, 
My  soul  aids  my  ears  to  catch  your  sweet  tone: 

"  If  life  is  not  sweetened  by  presence  and  breeding, 
'Tis  better  by  far  to  travel  alone. 

"  I  have  learned  as  my  wings  have  borne  me  thro'  groves 

Where  gods  their  ambrosial  nectar  sip, 
That  the  heart's  best  experience  ever  proves, 

Joy  comes  not  from  presence,  but  companionship.  " 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  189 


A  LESSON  FROM  NATURE. 

who  has  not  felt  his  gay  heart  beat  with  gladness, 
As  forth  he  has  wandered  some  morning  in  May? 
It  drives  away  care  and  relieves  us  from  sadness, 
It  cheers  the  lone  heart  and  makes  us  feel  gay. 

We  see  how  all  Nature  rejoices  around  us, 

The  plants  as  they  spring  from  the  earth  seem  to  smile, 

The  fresh  growing  leaves  of  the  groves  now  surround  us, 
And  soft  sounds  of  Spring-time  unite  to  beguile. 

The  earth  is  now  teeming  with  bright  vegetation, 
The  early  spring  flowers  are  now  in  their  bloom, 

And  where'er  we  look  there  appears  animation 
Just  bursting  the  cells  of  the  last  winter's  tomb. 

The  soft  breeze  of  May-day,  we  welcome  it  near  us, 
As  filled  with  rich  fragrance  it  comes  thro'  the  trees, 

And  the  bright  feathered  songsters  apparently  fear  us 
No  more  than  the  odors  that  float  on  the  breeze. 

They  tune  their  sweet  voices  and  sing  their  devotion, 
Their  hearts  seem  so  light,  so  merry  and  free, 

That  ideal  beauty  graces  each  motion, 

While  they  playfully  dart  from  bush  and  from  tree. 


190  OUB  PROFESSION 

Our  hearts  beat  with  rapture  too  great  for  expression 
"While  viewing  sweet  Nature,  so  lovely,  so  gay, 

And  hearing  those  sweet  lulling  sounds  in  succession, 
We  wished  in  our  joy  it  always  were  May. 

Thus  tempted  to  linger  and  spend  one  short  hour, 
In  looking  around  us  in  bliss  most  supreme, 

We  found  a  choice  spot  in  a  fine  shady  bower, 

Where  near  it  there  murmured  a  bright  silver  stream. 

From  this  lovely  spot  we  intently  were  watching 
The  scenes  that  surround  us  on  this  merry  May, 

Every  strain  of  grove-music  our  ears  were  now  catching, 
And  we  saw  every  movement  that  came  in  our  way. 

A  sweet,  tiny  bird  on  a  twig  near  the  river, 
Was  warbling  softly  his  choice  matin  lay, 

While  near  on  a  branch  we  soon  did  discover 
A  serpent  preparing  to  make  him  his  prey. 

Then  glancing  the  eye  to  a  branch  that  was  near  them, 
We  saw  there  a  nest  that  contained  a  young  brood; 

While  this  parent  bird  was  singing  to  cheer  them, 
The  other  returned  to  the  nest  with  their  food. 

The  worm  which  she  held  in  her  beak  she  soon  gave  them, 
Then  off  in  the  thicket  she  darted  again, 

To  seek  for  their  food,  and  from  hunger  relieve  them; 
But  on  her  return  how  great  was  her  pain ! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  191 

For  while  she  had  wandered,  this  serpent  intruder 
Had  charmed  her  loved  mate,  as  he  sat  on  the  spray, 

His  sweet  song  had  ceased,  and  his  notes  became  ruder, 
But  his  fluttering  wings  could  not  bear  him  away. 

We  flew  to  the  rescue — struck  down  the  invader 
Before  the  sweet  songster  had  yielded  his  life, 

Put  an  end  to  this  cunning  and  mischievous  raider, 
And  quieted  all  of  the  songster's  great  strife. 

We  learned  from  the  scenes  of  this  morning's  ramble 
That  moments  of  happiness  soon  may  decay; 

While  plucking  the  flowers  to  beware  of  the  bramble, 
Which  hid  among  blossoms  may  sadly  betray. 

We  learned  that  the  joys  of  this  world  are  not  lasting; 

That  what  we  call  pleasure  may  be  a  vain  show ; 
While  joys  seem  the  sweetest  they  only  are  blasting, 

And  happiness  frequently  ends  in  great  woe. 

We  learned  that  when  Nature  seems  most  to  invite  us, 
To  build  some  fond  hope  on  some  loved  scheme  of  ours, 

That  there  may  be  sadness  preparing  to  blight  us, 
Which  evades  all  our  watchings,  deiies  all  our  powers. 


192  OUR  PROFESSION 


MY   MOTHER'S   LOVE. 

Nine  months  after  writing  this  poem,  my  mother  died, 
Dec.  21st,  1894. 

/VA  Y  vision  eye  beholds  a  form, 

Bent  low  by  years  of  life's  fierce  storm, 

That  moves  with  feeble  tread; 
Though  time  has  worn  that  weary  frame 
The  heart  still  keeps  its  sacred  flame 

True,  undiminished. 

No  power  but  Death  can  ever  quell — 
No  mortal  tongue  can  ever  tell 

A  mother's  boundless  love; 
'Tis  shadowed  in  the  secret  sigh, 
Or  in  the  moisture  of  the  eye — 

E'en  silence,  it  may  prove. 

Itself  and  I  had  but  one  birth, 

It  came  from  heaven  to  gladden  earth 

And  brighten  man's  abode; 
To  feel  the  magic  of  its  power 
Is  richer  boon  than  any  dower 

The  earth  has  yet  bestowed. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  193 

Favored  in  this  has  been  my  lot; 
Kelentless  Death  has  robbed  me  not — 

Though  fifty  years  have  flown, 
Of  all  the  ecstasy  and  joy 
That  came  to  me  when  but  a  boy, 

Or  since  to  manhood  grown, 

Of  that  benign  maternal  smile, 
Whose  magic  influence  can  beguile 

My  heart  from  worldly  care, 
And  lead  me  toward  that  beacon-light 
Of  motive  pure  and  act  aright, 

No  matter  when  or  where. 

O  blessed  influence  of  the  past ! 
May  all  my  mother's  counsels  last 

Until  my  heart  shall  cease 
To  send  its  crimson  current  round 
The  tenement  wherein  'tis  bound, 

And  Death  shall  bring  release. 

Still  let  these  visions  come  to  me 
Of  her  I  would  so  gladly  see 

Though  far  from  her  I  roam; 
They  bring  sweet  memory  of  the  past, 
Which  but  a  few  more  years  may  last, 

Of  happiness  and  home. 


194  OUR  PROFESSION 


THE    EVENING    BEFOEE    MY    BROTHER'S 
FIFTY-THIRD    BIRTHDAY. 

P\EAR  Brother,  how  the  time  speeds  on 
And  leaves  its  trace  upon  our  forms; 
The  days  of  sunny  youth  are  gone 
And  age  unfits  us  for  the  storms 
That  gather  oft  for  you  and  me — 
To-morrow  you'll  be  fifty-three. 

It  seems  but  yesterday  since  youth 
Was  all  aglow  within  our  hearts, 

But  still  we  recognized  the  truth, 

Old  age  has  pierced  us  with  his  darts 

Until  from  pains  we  are  not  free — 
To-morrow  you'll  be  fifty-three. 

Long  years  of  toil  and  anxious  care 
Have  left  their  records  all  too  plain; 

The  failing  eye,  the  snowy  hair, 

The  limbs  and  body  racked  with  pain, 

Tell  tales  that  all  the  world  can  see — 
To-morrow  you'll  be  fifty-three. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  195 

Still  on  life's  battlefield  we'll  fight 
And  win  such  victories  as  we  may, 

Believing  still  that  right  is  might 

And  faithful  hearts  shall  win  the  day; 

Then  let  us  shout  and  sing  with  glee — 
To-morrow  you'll  be  fifty-three. 

And  when  a  few  more  days  are  past 

And  we  are  bowed  with  years  and  care, 

The  cheerful  sunshine  still  may  last 
To  make  declining  years  more  fair; 

Ah !  much  I  hope  that  this  may  be — 
To-morrow  you'll  be  fifty-three. 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  of  boyhood's  days 

And  all  the  happiness  they  gave, 
To  summon  back  life's  earliest  plays 

And  call  lost  childhood  from  its  grave ; 
Thus  memory  gives  us  victory — 

To-morrow  you'll  be  fifty-three. 

Since  manhood's  form  was  given  me 
Until  this  hour,  our  ways  have  been 

In  different  lines  of  industry, 

And  scarce  have  we  each  other  seen; 

Your  birthday's  held  in  memory — 
To-morrow  you'll  be  fifty-three. 


196  OUE  PROFESSION 


MY   BROTHER'S   BIRTHDAY. 

pIFTY-eight  to-day,  fifty-eight  to-day! 

How  years  of  your  life  have  sped  away, 

And  left  in  the  brown  of  the  dying  year 

A  quiet  content,  devoid  of  fear 
At  the  onward  march  of  Time's  noiseless  feet, 
Which  ever  advance,  but  ne'er  retreat, 

As  they  bear  you  on  to  that  silent  shore, 

From  which  earth's  mortals  return  no  more. 

With  the  flight  of  time  come  the  sunset  cares, 

The  faltering  step,  the  snowy  hairs, 

The  tottering  frame,  and  the  stifled  breath, 
Sure  harbingers  of  approaching  death, 

That  bring  with  their  train  a  tranquil  repose 

Unknown  to  the  tears  and  sighs  and  woes 
That  belong  to  scenes  of  an  active  life, 
Whose  atmosphere  breathes  of  toil  and  strife. 

As  glorious  day  dies  out  in  the  west 
And  sinks  in  crimson  splendor  to  rest, 

While  the  stars  of  heaven  come  one  by  one 
With  reflected  light  from  th'  sinking  sun, 
So  may  life  with  you  in  its  late  decline, 
Leave  a  trail  of  light  that  yet  may  shine 
To  illumine  the  path  that  others  tread, 
And  cheer  the  way  of  the  vanquished. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  197 

TO  MY  DAUGHTER  BLANCHE  IN  HEAVEN. 

Died  Jan.  4th,  1893,  aged  11  years. 

PjAELING  of  my  bosom, 

Pride  of  my  loving  heart, 
Hopes  were  sorely  shattered 

When  I  saw  your  life  depart ; 
In  you  I  saw  my  future, 

Cheered  by  your  smile  and  voice, 
Sorrow  ceased  its  frowning, 

My  spirit  would  rejoice. 

Life  was  made  much  brighter 

By  your  presence  sweet ; 
At  your  cheery  coming 

Heart-shadows  would  retreat ; 
Soulful  songs  with  meanings 

Beyond  your  years  were  sung  ; 
To  chords  of  sweetest  rapture 

Your  heart-strings  e'er  were  strung. 

From  out  the  realms  of  heav'n 

Still  you  speak  to  me, 
And  fancy  draws  the  curtain 

That  I  your  face  may  see  ; 
Perhaps  in  the  hereafter 

I  yet  may  fully  know 
The  purpose  of  your  going, 

Your  mission  here  below. 


198  ODE  PROFESSION 


THE  VOICE. 

T~*O  me  comes  a  voice  that  none  other 

Hath  power  to  hear  or  to  know, 
Its  cadence  so  sweet  and  consoling 

Is  a  whisper  so  gentle  and  low, 
That  the  flight  of  an  angel  might  covet 

The  silence  it  bears  in  its  tone  ; 
It  speaks  to  me  often,  to  comfort 
My  heart  when  I  sit  all  alone. 

I  oft  close  my  eyes  at  the  twilight 

And  that  voice  conies  floating  to  me 
Like  the  song  of  some  fairy  creature 

That  dwells  in  a  pearl-lighted  sea; 
When  the  shades  of  midnight  infold  me 

That  voice  lulls  me  gently  to  rest, 
And  tells  me  the  time  is  not  distant 

When  my  spirit  shall  dwell  as  its  guest. 

When  shadows  of  night  are  departing 

And  smiling  Aurora  appears, 
That  voice  of  sweet  invitation 

Falls  soothingly  into  my  ears  ; 
A  form  that  I  fondly  cherish 

Like  a  vision  of  beauty  I  see, 
That  comes  on  an  angelic  mission 

With  counsel  and  solace  for  me. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  199 

How  sweet  is  the  voice  that  is  calling — 

Is  calling  in  rapture  to  me 
And  leading  me  close  to  the  border 

Where  into  its  home  I  can  see ! 
It  tells  me  the  land  is  not  distant, 

That  soon  when  my  boat  I  must  launch, 
I  shall  know  the  voice  that  is  calling, 

Is  the  voice  my  lost  darling  Blanche. 


When  Liberty  lies  wounded, 

And  shrieks  in  wild  despair, 
Then  patriots  will  cast  aside 

The  party  garb  they  wear, 
And  honest  hands  and  hearts  unite, 

To  wash  away  the  stain 
That  narrow-minded  partisans 

Would  selfishly  maintain. 

Dear  Goddess  of  our  fathers ! 

Our  hands  shall  e'er  maintain 
The  sacred  trust  of  keeping  free 

The  realm  where  thou  dost  reign; 
And  counting  not  our  lives  too  dear 

To  offer  unto  thee, 
We  dedicate  all  that  we  are 

To  our  sweet  Liberty. 


200  OUR  PROFESSION 


A  PICTUKE. 

T  sat  by  the  farm-house  window 

When  the  winter's  sun  was  low, 
And  looked  on  the  clear  horizon 
O'er  fields  white-crested  with  snow. 

A  tree  with  its  arms  outstretching, 
Was  limned  on  the  distant  sky, 

And  my  fancy  saw  a  picture 
Such  as  gold  can  never  buy. 

Perhaps  to  no  other  vision 

Could  the  scene  be  just  the  same, 

For  blendings  in  the  picture 
Had  on  me  a  special  claim. 

My  mother  oft  had  looked  upon 
That  fair  picture  in  the  west, 

While  sitting  in  that  self-same  chair, 
Ere  she  laid  her  down  to  rest. 

This  gave  a  charm  to  the  picture 

Of  especial  power  to  me, 
And  my  vision  saw  a  painting 

That  none  else  on  earth  could  see. 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS.  201 

I  can  close  my  eyes  at  twilight 

Though  now  many  miles  away, 
And  see  that  lovely  horizon 

At  close  of  expiring  day. 

I  can  see  the  true  formation 

Of  each  rock  and  tree  and  field, 
In  a  perfect  panorama 

That  time  has  not  yet  concealed. 

It  is  not  an  idle  fancy 

For  me  now  to  paint  the  scene, 
Since  my  mother's  form  has  faded 

From  the  place  where  she  has  been. 

I  know  it  affords  me  comfort 

To  recall  from  day  to  day, 
That  scene  from  the  farm-house  window, 

Since  my  mother  passed  away. 


202  OUE  PROFESSION 

MY   BOOM  IN   BOYHOOD'S   DAYS. 

After  forty  years. 

C  ACRED  these  walls  wherein  I  find 

Myself  inclosed  once  more; 
Here  in  youth's  pride  my  ardent  mind 
On  nightly  tasks  would  pore. 

Sweet  were  these  tasks,  for  mental  power 
Comes  with  each  duty  done; 

And  ray  of  light  charmed  midnight's  hour 
When  thought  its  victory  won. 

Oft  did  the  battle  seem  severe, 
Sometimes  defeat  seemed  nigh, 

But  pride  and  love  must  persevere 
When  all  our  powers  we  try. 

Struggles  bring  a  development 

That  will  not  brook  defeat ; 
Within  us  dwells  an  element 

That  makes  just  contest  sweet. 

If  barriers  in  our  mental  path 

Stand  like  a  sullen  foe, 
Summon  the  soul,  in  righteous  wrath 

Strike  a  decisive  blow, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  203 

And  spare  not  till  the  victory 

Puts  ignorance  to  flight; 
And  let  the  battle-cry  e'er  be 

Science  and  Truth  and  Eight ! 

Such  victories,  when  fairly  won, 

Put  slaughter's  field  to  shame, 
And  Honor's  self  shall  place  upon 

Such  victors,  wreaths  of  fame. 

O  happy  hours  within  these  walls, 

But  happier  far  to  me 
Is  the  expanded  raind  which  calls 

Deep  thought,  best  liberty. 

That  mental  power  which  sees  the  world 

As  beauty,  grace,  and  art, 
"Wherein  God's  loveliness  unfurled, 

Speaks  to  a  living  heart, 

And  leads  it  tenderly  to  see 

The  harmony  of  laws 
Which  unifies  immensity, 

And  tells  of  the  First  Cause, 

Yields  greater  solace,  richer  lore, 

Than  books  alone  can  give; 
For  mind  and  soul  form  the  great  power 

By  which  we  act  and  live. 


204  OUR  PROFESSION 

The  wealth  that  dignifies  mankind 

Is  not  in  bonds  and  stocks, 
But  in  rich  thoughts,  noble,  refined, 

Needing  no  bars  nor  locks. 

When  man  for  manhood  more  shalPstrive, 
And  less  for  greed  and  gain, 

The  humble  poor  may  nobly  live, 
And  feel  not  hunger's  pain. 

These  walls  are  sacred  unto  me, 
For  thought  here  learned  to  soar 

And  build  the  ark  of  liberty 
I  love,  exalt,  adore. 


NATURE'S  VOICE. 

C  VERY  tree  and  plant,  every  tiny  flower 

That  grows  in  wood  or  field, 
Hath  a  voice  that  calls  aloud  to  me, 
And  a  beauty  half  concealed, 
That  draw  my  ears  to  hear  a  strain 
Of  music  sweet  and  low, 
And  paint  for  me  far  richer  hues 
Than  the  sunset's  evening  glow; 
They  speak  to  me  as  no  tongue  can  speak; 
Their  voices  are  sweeter  far 
Than  the  tones  that  fall  from  human  lips, 
Or  strains  of  sweet  music  are. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  206 


POUNDKIDGE,  N.  Y. 

PERHAPS  no  spot  upon  this  sphere, 

Has  charms  for  me  more  sacred,  dear, 

Than  those  of  old  Poundridge; 
I  love  her  hills,  her  lakes,  her  streams, 
Her  rural  haunts,  where  Nature  teems 

With  joys  naught  can  abridge. 

Her  dew-bespangled  meadows  shine 
With  gems  of  radiance  so  divine, 

When  touched  by  matin  sun, 
That  myriad  pendant  drops  of  dew, 
Lend  to  the  mead  a  brilliant  hue 

Like  earth  with  diamonds  strown. 

The  woods  that  sleep  on  distant  hills, 
Or  watch  o'er  gently  murmuring  rills, 

Seem  restful  to  the  soul; 
Their  silence  brings  sweetest  repose, 
A  panacea  for  the  woes 

That  spurn  M.  D's.  control. 

The  healthful,  healing,  peaceful  rest, 
To  frame  fatigued,  to  mind  distressed, 

Seems  but  a  foretaste  here, 
Of  that  serene  and  blest  abode, 
Which  to  the  faithful  child  of  God 

Hereafter  shall  appear. 


206  OUR  PROFESSION 

I  love  the  rustic's  rough  demesne, 
Which  yields  to  toil  a  wealth  unseen 

To  those  of  civic  life; 

For  here  I  drank,  in  youth's  bright  dawn, 
The  draughts  of  vigor  which  were  drawn 

From  labor's  busy  strife. 

I  love  the  house  wherein  I  played, 
The  yard  o'erspread  by  maple's  shade, 

The  nearby  babbling  brook; 
The  fields  o'er  which  my  youthful  feet 
Sped  onward  toward  the  trout's  retreat, 

With  dangling  line  and  hook. 

I  love  the  path  across  the  wood 
Which  once  I  trod  in  search  of  food 

For  hungering,  thirsting  mind, 
The  room  where  pupils  used  to  meet 
And  strive  to  make  their  work  complete 

And  manners  more  refined. 

All  these  I  love  for  what  is  past, 

And  still  must  love  while  life  shall  last; 

But  I  do  love  still  more 
The  souls  who  fired  my  mental  lamp, 
And  on  my  character  did  stamp 

Truths  fraught  with  richest  lore. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  207 

I  see  my  aged  mother  there, 
My  father  in  his  old  arm-chair, 

And  fancy  hears  their  voice; 
My  brother  yet  so  full  of  joy, 
Has  passed  the  limits  of  a  boy, 

But  still  can  much  rejoice. 

Upon  the  hill,  the  lakes  between, 
Are  sacred  mounds  of  living  green, 

Where  sleep  my  precious  dead; 
A  vacant  spot  reserved  for  me, 
To  which  my  heart  looks  longingly, 

Invites  my  weary  head. 

No  greater  boon  could  I  e'er  ask 
When  I  have  finished  earthly  task, 

Than  quietly  to  rest, 
Surrounded  by  her  vales  and  hills, 
Her  laughing  lakes  and  singing  rills, 

And  friends  that  I  love  best. 

Tho'  many  years  now  intervene, 
My  mind  recalls  each  boyhood  scene 

Of  field  and  wood  and  bridge ; 
These  cherished  memories  only  prove 
Abiding  faith  and  filial  love 

Toward  restful,  old  Poundridge. 


208  OUR  PROFESSION 


TIM. 

\A/E  remember  well  when  a  schoolboy, 

When  pliant  in  mind  and  limb, 
We  had  for  a  boon  companion, 

A  bright  youth  whose  name  was  Tim. 

He  was  sturdy,  strong,  and  honest, 
In  body  and  mind  he  had  vim, 

So  we  learned  by  intuition, 
To  place  much  reliance  on  Tim. 

We  fished  and  hunted  together, 

In  summer,  the  lakes  we  would  swim, 

Skated  their  surface  in  winter, 
With  mercurial,  wonderful  Tim". 

Our  tasks  at  school  were  a  union, 

And  when  thoughts  were  distant  or  dim, 

A  light  illumined  the  pages, 

That  seemed  a  reflection  from  Tim. 

Reciprocal  visits  were  often, 

He  slept  with  me,  I  slept  with  him, 

Talked  till  near  dawn  of  daylight, 
With  fluent  and  scholarly  Tim. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  209 

Decades  have  passed  since  that  season, 

My  hair  is  reduced  to  a  rim, 
But  my  heart  beats  as  warm  as  ever, 

For  that  friend  of  my  youth,  named  Tim. 

As  years  fleet  away,  we  treasure 

The  power  of  our  mind  to  skim 
O'er  the  scenes  of  early  doings, 

With  valiant  and  trustworthy  Tim. 

A  third  of  a  century  over, 

Still  a  friend  have  we  now  like  him, 

Exact  in  his  every  bearing, 

And  his  name  is — unchanged — Tim. 

We  wonder  if  in  the  hereafter, 

When  we  range  with  the  Seraphim, 

Happiness  will  be  augmented 
By  the  kindly  presence  of  Tim. 

We  trust  an  expanded  mission 

Will  fill  us  with  joy  to  the  brim, 
As  we  ramble  the  fields  of  glory, 

With  genial  and  faithful  friend  Tim. 


210  OUK  PROFESSION 


On    receiving    sprigs  of  Forget-me-not  and  Lilly-of-the- 
Valley  in  envelope,  through  mail,  with  no  note  or  name  inclosed. 

|N  form  it  was  a  letter, 

Unique  in  its  every  part, 
The  expression  could  not  be  better, 
For  it  touched  my  inmost  heart. 

No  pen  had  marred  its  beauty, 

No  ink  had  traced  a  line, 
It  did  its  silent  duty 

Like  a  messenger  divine. 

Upon  its  page  was  written 

No  English,  French,  nor  Greek; 

But  a  universal  language 
That  only  flowers  can  speak. 

The  colors  were  pure  whiteness 

And  heavenly  tints  of  blue, 
Excelling  all  the  brightness 

That  art  can  bring  to  view. 

The  Lily-of-the-Valley 

And  sweet  Forget-me-not, 
That  grow  where  perfumes  dally 

In  sweet  secluded  spot, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  211 

When  sent  to  tell  some  story 

That  words  cannot  express, 
Are  fraught  with  special  glory 

And  richest  tenderness. 

Their  perfumes  speak  of  gladness, 

Their  colors  of  delight, 
They  neutralize  dull  sadness, 

Turn  darkness  into  light. 

They  link  the  heart  of  sender 
To  heart  to  which  they're  sent, 

And  unto  both  will  render 
The  sweetness  of  content. 

I  love  them  for  their  clearness, 
Their  whiteness  and  their  blue; 

But  added  to  such  dearness 

Is  the  thought  they  came  from  you. 


212  OUE  PROFESSION 

ALL   THINGS   ARE   SECOND-HANDED. 

On  being  asked  to  write  an  original  poem. 

THERE'S  no  new  thing  under  the  sun," 
Said  the  ancient  priest  and  preacher; 
What  seems  now  new  is  only  done 

To  quicken  some  old  feature 
That  lies  effete,  or  badly  worn, 

And  lacks  its  pristine  rigor, 
That  needs  an  energizing  touch 
To  give  it  life  and  vigor. 

The  sun  that  shines  on  us  to-day, 

Shone  on  our  ancient  parents 
"Who  walked  upon  the  primal  clay; 

And  science  fully  warrants 
That  not  one  atom  has  been  lost, 

And  not  one  atom  added 
To  all  the  atom  matter  host, 

Although  some  forms  have  faded. 

The  gorgeous  colors  that  are  cast 

On  cloud-land  morn  and  even, 
Are  but  reflections  of  the  past 

That  erst  had  spangled  heaven 
With  glories  from  that  mystic  throne 

Whose  blendings  none  can  rival, 
But  whose  expiring  tints,  alone, 

Admit  of  a  revival. 


AND  OTHEB  POEMS.  213 

The  rain  that  drops  has  dropped  before; 

Our  flowers  were  another's; 
The  songs  we  sing  were  sung  of  yore 

By  long  departed  brothers; 
The  sounds  we  hear  are  but  the  tones 

Or  echoes  of  the  past; 
We  live  among  the  mouldering  bones 

Of  forms  too  frail  to  last. 

Then  ask  me  not  for  something  new, 

All  things  are  second-handed, 
The  old  may  sometimes  be  more  true 

Than  that  more  lately  branded; 
But  taking  things  as  best  we  can, 

We  know  'tis  only  human 
To  shun  a  second-handed  man, 

Or  a  second-handed  woman. 

But  let  us  not  be  too  severe 

On  second-handed  matter, 
For  nothing  seems  to  be  more  clear 

Than  that  we  should  not  flatter 
Our  souls  into  a  fatal  state, 

Of  scoffing  at  the  common, 
For  who  can  tell  what  cruel  fate 

May  make  of  man  or  woman  ? 


214  OUE  PROFESSION 


FACES  WE  EEAD. 

',.  \jk  •" 

E  may  read  from  the  face  at  leisure, 
From  the  leaf  that  reflects  the  soul, 
The  thought,  the  desire,  and  the  measure 

That  imprint  on  the  facial  scroll 
The  innermost  mind  and  its  actions, 

The  heart  with  its  strongest  desires, 
The  passions,  impulses,  and  factions 
Which  animate  clay  oft  inspires. 

Ev'ry  line  of  th*  face  has  a  father 

Whose  hand  has  engraven  it  there, 
But  shades  of  the  spirit  are  rather 

Betrayed  in  the  hue  of  the  hair; 
The  pencils  of  thought,  true  to  nature, 

Have  written  their  records  so  plain, 
That  a  skillful  eye  reads  each  feature 

That  dwells  in  the  heart  and  the  brain. 

One  may  peep  into  occult  recesses 

Which  only  the  face  will  reveal, 
May  read  what  the  tongue  quite  represses 

But  the  eye  cannot  fully  conceal, 
May  fathom  the  deepest  depressions 

Where  the  soul  has  buried  its  woe, 
Where  the  heart  would  hold  secret  sessions 

With  scenes  and  events  long  ago. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  215 


The  writer  applying  for  a  room  at  Newpoint  Inn,  Amityville, 
Long  Island,  was  informed  that  the  house  was  full.  Some 
friends,  stopping  near,  kindly  invited  him  to  go  with  them.  He 
accepted.  After  his  departure  he  sent  the  following : 

AMITYVILLE. 

I  was  a  stranger  and  ye  took  me  in, 

Hungry  and  ye  fed  me," 
No  place  for  me  at  Newpoint  Inn, 
So  home  you  kindly  led  me. 

Some  say  the  world  is  cold  and  sour, 

Devoid  of  fellow-feeling, 
But  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour, 

To  me  comes  a  revealing 

That  warm  hearts  beat  where'er  we  go, 
Kind  hands  are  gladly  serving 

The  kindred  hearts  which  ever  show 
They  truly  are  deserving. 

The  world,  indeed,  may  frigid  be 
When  icebergs  float  around  it, 

But  warm,  true  hearts  of  constancy, 
Have  uniformly  found  it 


216  OUR  PROFESSION 

To  be  a  place  where  fragrant  flowers 
Deprive  the  thorns  of  stings, 

Where  sunny  souls  spend  happy  hours, 
And  Nature  laughs  and  sings. 

We  make  our  paths,  we  dwell  the  lives 

Selected  by  ourselves; 
We  shape  the  destiny  that  gives 

Our  fate  to  gods  or  elves. 

Then  let  us  know  this  truth  full  well 

Wherever  we  may  be, 
We  have  a  power  to  help  us  dwell 

In  the  ville  of  amity. 


Robin  is  a  singer;  sweet  and  pure  and  clear 

Are  the  notes  he  warbles  from  his  covert  near;     . 

Softly,  oh !  how  softly,  at  the  sunset's  glow 

Does  he  chant  his  vespers,  plaintive,  sweet,  and  low. 

Kobin  is  an  artist;  he  beautifies  the  stream, 
The  vale,  the  hill,  the  meadow,  until  they  truly  seem 
To  glow,  because  his  presence  gives  to  each  a  tongue 
To  echo  back  the  music  his  minstrel  throat  has  sung. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  217 


TRUE  WEALTH. 

THE  smallest  type  of  manhood  that  lives, 

(If  manhood  it  may  be  called,) 
Is  that  which  knows  no  power  but  wealth 

That  is  measured  in  stocks  and  gold; 
It  looks  in  disdain  on  a  working  man 

Who  declines  to  bend  his  knee, 
Though  in  honor's  scales  he  may  outweigh 
The  scorner,  in  great  degree. 

There's  a  wealth  that  far  surpasses  all 

The  houses  and  stocks  and  gold, 
That  ever  was  on  the  market  placed, 

To  be  by  a  hireling  sold; 
'Tis  the  wealth  of  manhood,  noble,  free, 

And  an  independent  mind 
That  scorns  to  swerve  from  justice  and  truth, 

But  faithfully  serves  mankind. 


218  OUR  PROFESSION 

PIOUS   PIE   POEM  PUNS. 

Dedicated  to  my  Ex-Pier. 

pious  afternoon  in  June 
When  pyronomics  held  full  sway, 
My  pilot,  fancy,  led  me  on 

To  seek  new  fields,  piebald  and  gay. 

The  pianet  rested  in  shade, 

The  lark,  piano- voiced,  sang  not, 

But  pining  for  some  genial  maid 
To  pioneer  me  to  a  spot, 

Where  pine  or  oak  might  shield  from  heat, 
My  thoughts  turned  piously  to  where 

Pierian  pleasures  one  might  meet, 
And  pious  converse  jointly  share. 

Pyrometers  were  all  at  home — 

No  doubt  the  figures  mounted  high — 

She  sighed  and  said  she  could  not  roam, 
Then  pitt  (i)  ed  me  with  cherry  pie. 

Piacular  may  she  not  be, 

And  thus  escape  the  eternal  pyre, 

No  pirate's  heart  would  dance  with  glee 
Like  mine,  to  see  that  maid — Ex-Pier. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  219 


FIDELITY. 

A  Legend  of  Trinity  Lake,  Poundridge,  N.  Y. 


Bead  at  a  Farmers'  Picnic,  Trinity  Lake,  Sept.  1,  1891. 


The  Bippowams  were  a  tribe  of  Indians  living  along  the 
Sound  near  Stamford  and  Norwalk,  Ct. ,  and  extended  their  ter 
ritory  for  some  miles  northward.  The  Kitchewonks  were  a 
tribe  living  on  the  Hudson,  near  Sing  Sing  and  Peekskill,  N.  Y., 
and  found  their  way  eastward.  In  the  early  days  of  the  Indian 
occupation  of  these  lands  the  Bippowams  followed  up  the  stream 
running  from  the  three  lakes — Bound  Pond,  Middle  Pond,  and 
Lower  Pond — while  the  Kitchewonks  followed  that  branch  of 
the  Croton  which  finds  its  source  in  Cross  Pond,  now  Lake 
Kitchewan.  For  the  possession  of  these  grounds  there  were 
frequent  battles  between  these  tribes,  as  the  lake-land  abounded 
in  fish  and  game.  The  intercourse  between  these  tribes,  both 
belonging  to  the  Mohegans,  was  very  limited,  at  first,  but  in 
course  of  time  became  more  frequent  and  friendly.  A  lime  and 
marble  ridge  separates  Lake  Kitchewan  from  the  three  lower 
lakes  and  forms  a  watershed  between  the  Hudson  and  the 
sound. 

In  recent  years  a  dam  was  constructed  by  the  Stamford 
Water  Co.,  and  the  three  lakes  were  made  into  one,  and  very 
appropriately  called  thereafter,  Trinity.  The  lakes  are  supplied 
almost  entirely  by  springs,  as  no  streams  of  any  size  empty  into 
them. 


220  OUR  PROFESSION 

For  several  years,  in  the  spring  time,  a  floating  island  ap 
peared  in  Trinity,  upon  which  vegetation  grew  abundantly. 
This  island  sank  upon  the  approach  of  cold  weather  and  re 
mained  in  a  state  of  hibernation  until  the  spring  came.  Some 
person  or  persons  who  had  no  love  for  the  romantic,  curious, 
and  beautiful,  loaded  it  so  heavily  with  stones  that  it  sank  to 
rise  no  more. 

In  its  departure  the  lake  sustained  the  loss  of  an  attraction 
which  is  known  in  but  few  lakes  in  the  world. 

A  large  rock,  estimated  to  weigh  eight  or  ten  tons,  is  so 
nicely  poised  upon  another  rock,  upon  a  high  point  about  fifty 
rods  west  of  the  lake,  that  a  gentle  pressure  of  the  hand  will 
cause  it  to  rock  perceptibly. 

Directly  opposite  the  picnic  grounds  are  precipitous  rocks, 
below  which  the  waters  are  extremely  deep. — THE  AUTHOR. 


\A7HEN  the  infant  world  in  its  swaddling  band 

Of  mist  and  cloud  and  storm, 
Assumed  its  forms  of  sea  and  land, 

And  the  lakes  and  streams  were  born, 
In  this  western  world,  on  the  eastern  shore, 

Four  leagues  from  the  inland  sea, 
Came  a  liquid  crown  set  with  jewels  four, 

But  in  union  only  three; 
For  the  northern  gem  was  a  solitaire 

And  barred  from  the  lesser  three, 
By  a  marble  wall  wrought  strong  and  fair 

By  the  hand  of  Divinity. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  221 

A  silver  thread  from  the  Trinity 

Ban  southward  through  the  wood, 
Till  it  lost  its  flow  in  the  land-locked  sea, 

And  was  merged  in  old  Neptune's  flood; 
But  the  northern  gem  in  a  mystic  race 

Sent  a  message  toward  the  west, 
And  linked  itself  in  the  kind  embrace 

Of  the  Hudson  grandly  dressed. 

Ten  thousand  moons  had  waxed  and  waned 

And  flung  on  the  mirror  sheet 
A  train  of  beauty,  with  no  discord  stained 

Since  creation  stood  complete. 
Here  antlered  deer  had  slaked  their  thirst 

And  fought  their  imaged  form; 
Here  rolling  tones  of  thunder  burst, 

As  a  harbinger  of  storm; 
Here  song  of  bird  and  sigh  of  breeze 

Had  ne'er  met  human  ear; 
The  beast  on  land,  the  fowl  on  trees 

Dwelt  here  in  peace  and  knew  no  fear. 

Brave  Kitchewonks  had  traced  their  way 
Along  the  stream  that  westward  ran, 

While  Bippowams  pursued  their  prey 
Until  this  lake-land  was  their  van. 

'Twas  here  Mohegan  met  again 
The  blood  that  in  Mohegan  flowed, 

But  each  regarded  not  the  vein, 


222  OUR  PKOFESSION 

Though  kinsmen,  foes  they  firmly  stood. 
This  lake-land,  rich  in  fish  and  game, 

Was  ground  for  strife  and  war  and  blood; 
From  west  and  south  the  warriors  came 

In  battle  paint  and  surly  mood. 
The  Kitchewonks  near  northern  lake 

Upon  the  Bippowams  looked  down, 
And  hoped  their  power  and  pride  to  break 

E'er  harvest-moon  had  fully  grown. 

ALMETA  on  the  western  stream 

Now  mourned  her  absent  PONOMO, 
For  harvest-moon  had  sent  its  gleam 

Across  the  Hudson's  tidal  flow, 
And  at  its  full  he  was  to  come, 

And  her  to  lake-land  safely  guide, 
Where  they  should  make  their  future  home, 

And  she  should  there  become  his  bride. 
But  he  had  with  Bippowams'  band, 

Marched  forth  to  meet  her  kinsmen  dear, 
And  face  to  face  they  sternly  stand 

Prepared  for  battle-storm  severe. 

Her  heart  bid  her  to  dare  the  shock 

And  seek  him  near  the  hostile  camp; 
Her  mind  her  heart  would  basely  mock, 

And  boding  fears  her  ardor  damp; 
The  bondage  of  her  heart  so  great 

Her  coward  mind  could  never  free; 
She  heeds  no  danger,  dares  all  fate, 

And  this  her  brief  soliloquy: 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  223 

' '  I  know  that  tribal  laws  demand 

My  life  if  I  should  thither  flee, 
I  must  obey  that  great  command — 

God's  higher  law — fidelity. 
No  other  lips  my  lips  have  pressed, 

No  other  arms  encircled  me, 
Since  he  my  maiden  form  caressed 

And  each  breathed  vows  of  constancy. 
For  me  at  each  returning  moon 

He  journeyed  through  the  forest  wild, 
Braved  dangers  that  my  heart  hath  won, 

And  now  I  must  not  be  defiled 
By  any  doubt  or  any  fear 

That  death  or  suffering  may  bring. 
I'd  count  such  sacrifice  not  dear 

If  I  must  be  an  offering. 

"  "What  though  my  blood  may  stain  the  soil, 

Devotion  mark  me  for  a  slave 
Through  weary  years  to  strive  and  toil, 

Or  fate  should  sink  me  'neath  the  wave ! 
'Twere  better  far  that  such  should  be 

Than  I  should  violate  my  heart 
And  all  that's  sacred  unto  me 

By  acting  a  base  traitor's  part. 
I  must  away,  I  must  away 

To  meet  him  by  the  silvery  lake  ! 
'Tis  crime  for  me  to  longer  stay 

I  will  not,  cannot  now  forsake." 


224  OUR  PROFESSION 

She  speeds  along  the  forest  trail 

Where  warriors  late  in  painted  form, 
Had  marched  through  Kitchewan's  fair  vale 

To  meet  their  foes  in  battle-storm. 
Her  eyes  are  watchful  to  survey, 

Her  ears  detect  the  lightest  sound, 
Her  heart  and  mind  to  her  betray 

Where  barriers  to  her  flight  are  found. 
She  shuns  them  all  by  tact  and  skill; 

Most  gladly  she  to  him  will  prove 
The  power  that's  in  a  woman's  will, 

The  faith  that's  in  a  woman's  love. 

From  hill  and  ledge  she  scans  the  ground 

While  dangers  seem  her  faith  to  mock; 
But  highest  point  by  her  is  found, 

She  stands  upon  the  swaying  rock, 
Which  seems  unsteady  'neath  her  feet, 

And  makes  her  doubt  if  she  can  stand 
To  make  inspection  so  complete, 

She  may  discern  PONOMO'S  band. 
The  trembling  rock  and  trembling  heart 

Are  firmly  fixed,  no  power  can  move; 
But  from  its  crest  she  must  depart 

In  search  of  him  her  heart  doth  love. 
She  stands  beside  the  central  lake 

Along  whose  shores  the  war-whoop  rang, 
And  softly  for  her  own  heart's  sake, 

This  song  of  harvest-moon  she  sang : 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  225 

"The  hunter's  moon  now  floods  the  night 

Turns  darkness  into  day, 
The  wood  and  lake  in  mellow  light, 

Charm  grief  and  care  away. 

"  The  sparkling  water's  silvery  gleam 

My  sorrow  soothes  for  me, 
And  lifts  my  soul  in  fancy's  dream 

To  thoughts  so  pure  and  free. 

"  So  bright  the  light  that  fills  the  night, 

The  song-birds  sweetly  sing; 
From  tree  to  tree  they  take  their  flight 

On  swift  yet  noiseless  wing. 

"Now  come,  PONOMO,  come  to  me, 

I  wait  your  coming  here; 
You  promised  'neath  this  hemlock  tree, 

At  midnight  to  appear. 

"  My  heart,  my  life,  my  all  is  yours, 

And  you  are  all  to  me; 
Faith  trusts  your  promise  and  assures 

Unchanged  fidelity. 

"  I  know  your  heart  is  warm  and  true, 

Your  love  not  cold  or  dumb, 
No  earthly  power  can  it  subdue; 

I  know  that  you  will  come." 


226  OUR  PROFESSION 

She  hears  a  footstep  drawing  near; 

Her  voice  is  mute,  her  song  is  done, 
She  waits,  PONOMO  to  appear, 

In  shadowed  silence  all  alone. 
Beneath  lugubrious  hemlock  shade 

Her  heart  beats  with  expectancy, 
And  Kitchewonk's  own  dusky  maid 

Trusts  Rippowam's  fidelity. 
He  comes!  She  sees  him  near  the  lake; 

She  knows  his  form,  his  step,  his  voice; 
No  other  charm  for  her  could  make 

Her  heart  and  soul  so  much  rejoice. 

They  meet  beside  the  water's  edge 

Where  hemlock  boughs  in  silence  nod, 
And  there  with  mutual  vow  and  pledge, 

In  presence  of  their  living  God, 
They  join  the  hand,  the  heart,  the  life, 

While  harvest-moon  a  witness  stood, 
That  he  the  husband,  she  the  wife, 

Should  share  in  life's  vicissitude. 
That  sacred  pledge  was  heard  on  high 

And  written  by  an  angel  hand, 
Nor  priest,  nor  king,  nor  majesty, 

Could  marriage  rites  perform  more  grand. 

No  tribal  laws  or  priestly  hand 
Can  rivet  adverse  hearts  in  one; 

Compulsion  has  no  iron  band 
So  strong  it  may  not  be  undone ; 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  227 

But  ties  of  mutual  interest 

That  spring  spontaneous  from  the  soul, 
Are  never  by  themselves  oppressed, 

Their  silken  cords  have  full  control. 
To  know,  to  feel,  to  fully  share 

The  joys  and  sorrows  of  this  life, 
Unites  the  souls  of  mated  pair, 

And  make  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

PONOMO  and  ALMETA  there, 

Where  juts  of  rocks  'neath  hemlock  boughs, 
Had  breathed  a  mutual,  fervent  prayer, 

And  each  to  each  pledged  sacred  vows, 
When  o'er  the  lake  the  war-whoop  rang, 

And  Kitchewonks,  on  every  side, 
Swept  down  with  shout  and  yell  and  clang, 

Upon  PONOMO  and  his  bride. 
On  north  and  south,  and  on  the  west, 

No  way  of  flight  then  could  they  take, 
So  from  the  rough  rocks'  rugged  side 

They  plunged  into  the  central  lake. 

A  hundred  arrows  cleft  the  air, 

But  one  alone  had  reached  its  mark. 
PONOMO  felt  it  roughly  tear 

Its  way  into  his  faithful  heart. 
He  shrieked  and  sank  beneath  the  wave, 

ALMETA  followed  after  him; 
Their  bridal  couch  was  watery  grave, 

The  war-whoop  was  their  requiem. 


228  OUR  PROFESSION 

The  savage  yell  of  victory 

Re-echoed  then  from  shore  to  shore, 
While  every  rock  and  every  tree 

Seemed  deeply  tinged  with  human  gore, 
For  when  the  moon  from  heavenly  throne 

Looked  down  and  saw  the  ghastly  deed, 
It  veiled  itself  and  feebly  shone, 

As  if  in  agony  to  plead 
That  human  souls  might  ever  know 

That  Grod  himself  cannot  approve 
The  hand  that  strikes  avenging  blow, 

The  soul  devoid  fraternal  love. 

'Neath  crystal  waters  of  the  lake, 

In  silent,  undisturbed  repose, 
Where  sounds  of  strife  no  slumbers  break, 

Heedless  alike  of  friends  and  foes, 
They  slept  the  long,  long  sleep  of  death, 

Through  centuries  of  rolling  years, 
While  o'er  their  forms  the  zephyrs'  breath 

In  playful  eddyings  oft  appears. 
Their  race  has  faded  from  the  shore 

And  left  few  traces  that  they  were ; 
The  war-whoop  now  resounds  no  more, 

They  bowed  before  White  Conqueror. 
Full  many  a  fathom  'neath  the  wave, 

Their  forms  have  mouldered  side  by  side, 
While  shadowy  hemlocks  fringe  the  grave 

Of  dark  PONOMO  and  his  bride. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  229 

The  waters  then  were  deeper  made 

Which  gave  their  spirits  much  unrest, 
The  lake  their  agony  betrayed 

And  seemed  on  every  side  distressed. 
One  spring  when  Nature  gaily  dressed 

"With  charms  that  could  the  mind  beguile, 
There  rose  upon  the  lake's  fair  breast 

A  hibernating,  floating  isle. 
Devoid  of  life  it  seemed  at  first, 

Chaotic,  dull,  with  beauty  none, 
But  rays  of  sunshine  on  it  burst 

And  changed  it  to  a  paragon. 

Two  alders  sprang  from  near  its  edge 

And  twined  in  close  embrace, 
While  ferns  and  grass  gave  certain  pledge 

That  Time  should  give  it  smiling  face. 
But  when  the  frosts  of  autumn  fell 

It  sank  from  sight,  perchance  to  rest; 
No  searching  mind  could  ever  tell 

The  secret  of  its  rising  crest. 
For  years,  at  each  returning  spring, 

The  isle  would  rise  from  'neath  the  wave, 
As  if  to  memory  to  bring 

PONOMO  and  ALMETA'S  grave. 
But  when  the  harvest-moon  shone  bright, 

It  meekly  sank  ;  as  years  before 
When  on  that  dread,  but  fatal  night, 

The  faithful  sank  by  rock-bound  shore. 


230  OUR  PROFESSION 

Its  verdure  grew,  its  alders  spread, 
Its  fame  extended  many  a  mile, 

'Twas  type  of  resurrected  dead — 
This  hibernating,  floating  isle. 

But  vandal  hands  destroyed  the  prize 

And  sank  it  'neath  a  weight  of  stones, 
While  ALMETA  sends  forth  her  sighs, 

And  PONOMO  emits  his  groans. 
Here  let  them  rest,  if  rest  they  may, 

Amid  the  beauteous  scenes  around, 
And  wait  in  peace  the  final  day, 

When  at  the  angel's  trumpet  sound, 
The  water  shall  give  up  its  prey, 

The  earth  shall  full  surrender  make, 
For  heaven  has  not  a  type  to-day, 

More  perfect  than  this  sky-blue  lake. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  231 


FINIS. 

A  FTER  our  labor  is  finished, 

After  the  struggle  is  done, 
A  restful  surcease  awaits  us 

At  the  setting  of  life's  sun. 
If  when  our  toil  seemed  the  sorest 

The  heart  refused  to  retreat 
From  a  grand  and  noble  purpose, 

Till  the  vic'try  was  complete, 
Then  shall  joyous  crown  await  us, 

Eesplendent  with  jewels  rare, 
And  a  radiance  of  honor 

The  face  shall  benignly  wear; 
Not  that  our  works  were  all  faultless 

And  free  from  error  and  wrong, 
But  because  our  sincere  purpose 

Made  us  brave  and  true  and  strong. 

Results  of  labor  thus  rendered, 

Are  safely  trusted  to  Heaven, 
For  He  who  knows  ev'ry  motive, 

Understands  why  we  have  striven. 
If  to  man  were  given  the  balance 

To  adjust  with  equity, 
His  weakness  and  imperfection, 

His  greed  and  his  jealousy, 


232  OUB  PROFESSION  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Might  sway  the  poise  from  adjustment, 
And  his  judgment  go  astray, 

Through  the  frailties  of  his  nature — 
Imperfect  humanity 

The  Infallible  in  knowledge, 

Whose  true  balance  never  swerves, 
Knows  every  man's  Gethsemane, 

And  the  merit  he  deserves. 
He  will  not  ask  figs  of  the  thorns; 

Of  talents  will  not  demand 
A  greater  increase  than  is  just 

From  a  faithful  steward's  hand. 
Feeling  the  weight  of  the  mission 

Incumbent  upon  our  care; 
Searching  the  heart's  deep  recesses 

That  vice  may  not  shelter  there; 
Working  courageously  onward 

The  truth  and  right  to  defend; 
And  asking  a  perfect  guidance, 

We  calmly  welcome  the  end. 


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